


The Case of 'Well It's Not Fiction Any More'- Day One

by shadowed_sunsets



Series: The Detective and the Writer [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crime Solving, Epic Friendship, Gen, casefic kind of, character as police detective, character as writer, typical police procedural violence and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/pseuds/shadowed_sunsets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a somewhat famous author of detective novels, well-known for his intricate plots but barely known by the press or public. John Watson is a NYPD homicide detective, known amongst his colleagues for catching- and solving- the peculiar cases most detectives avoid.</p><p>When John catches a case involving a crime scene that looks oddly familiar, he brings in Sherlock Holmes to consult. Just that one time, supposedly.</p><p>The NYPD precinct will never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first thing you, my reader, should know is that this is not the complete story. As you may be able to tell by the title, this entire story will be told by the events of each day of the case. This part is only day one of the case. (In the fashion of 24, if you're familiar with the show). 
> 
> The other consecutive days will be posted as their own separate story. They are also currently in the works.
> 
> I have been writing this story for a while now, and believe it is now, finally ready to share with everyone. And I'm excited to hear what people think of it! It was initially inspired by the show Castle, especially the pilot. But this is not a duplicate. There are also aspects inspired by original ACD stories.
> 
> Enormous thanks to squire who was instrumental in helping me whip this into shape and form it into something actually readable. And also for lending their expertise to make sure everything was realistic and correct- especially with the police procedural parts. You are so wonderful to work with, and I look forward to keep working with you. Thank you for being patient with me.
> 
> Also thanks goes to my coworker Amanda who was also patient with me and let me ramble on and brainstorm about this with her.
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are my own. Apologies.
> 
> And now on to the story... I hope you enjoy!

Molly Hooper, publishing agent and unofficially designated handler of Sherlock Holmes for the agency, was very close to the end of her patience which meant then tumbling off the cliff into free-fall of losing her temper.

It didn’t happen often. In most day-to-day happenings she had a nearly endless pool of patience to tap from. Especially since most of her days involved seemingly endless calls with annoyed or demanding agents on behalf of writers eager to get their work published.

Sherlock Holmes was an entirely different story. When he wasn’t pretending to be charming or friendly in order to get what he wanted, Sherlock had the unfortunate habit of rubbing her the wrong way. He was so stubborn and selfish and unwilling to cooperate or compromise when he knew, or thought, he was right. Which was almost all of the time.

Molly was sure he would try even the patience of a saint. And a saint she was definitely not.

“Sherlock, will you please just hear me out!” Molly finally snapped at the figure still lying prone on the couch with his back to her a few feet away.

Sherlock sighed loudly, as if she were demanding too much from him, and didn’t move.

Well, all right then. She’d just have to convince him while glaring at his back.

“People expect you to show up to these things, Sherlock. It is your book after all; potential readers expect you to promote it.” Molly attempted to persuade the man-child who was supposed to be a famous mystery writer.

“Tedious.”

The word had mostly been mumbled into the cloth of the sofa cushion Sherlock had his face pressed into, so Molly couldn’t be completely sure she’d heard him right. “What?”

“Tedious!” Sherlock blasted, rolling over onto his back to glare accusingly up at the ceiling. “Boring, tedious, dull, whichever word you prefer to use. Those events are the most idiotic, mind-numbing things I have ever had the misfortune to be forced to attend.”

He turned his head slightly to turn his glare on her, piercing through the unkempt curtain of curls. “If you even attempt to make me attend another, I promise I will make your life miserable.”

“What, more miserable than it already is?” Molly teased, resting her hands on her hips.

Sherlock huffed and made to turn back onto his side again, his most common method of ending conversations on his terms.

From the hallway behind the sofa that connected the two back bedrooms with the living room and kitchen came the pounding of bare feet on wooden floorboards. A small blurred figure burst into the living room then rounded the side of the sofa to launch itself over the arm and onto Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock pulled his legs up just in time to avoid them being used as a landing pad. Instead his daughter landed on the now bare sofa cushion, which deflated a little under the force of her landing.

“Daaad,” she protested, looking annoyed. “You weren’t s’posed to move!” The effect was somewhat tempered by the way her dark curls were still bouncing slightly and the gleam in her large green eyes.

“‘Supposed’,” Sherlock corrected automatically, looking down at her from where he was leaning back against the sofa cushion. “And I enjoy the use of my legs, so I would rather you didn’t injure them by landing on them.”

“Fine,” his daughter, who was really more like him then either would ever admit, finally consented. “But it’s difficult, when you take up all of it!” She finished, looking only a second away from sticking her tongue out.

“You were meant to be asleep. You usually sleep for another half hour at least,” Sherlock pointed out, attempting to use logic on her.

His daughter pulled a face. “Sleeping’s boring. And I heard Molly’s voice.” She turned to beam a still slightly gap-toothed smile at Molly. “Hi Molly!”

“Hi Ellie,” Molly greeted warmly, always amused by the antics of Sherlock’s daughter. She had just as much personality as her father, but bundled in a high-energy girl. The public didn’t know about her, and Molly, Sherlock, and Sherlock’s brother worked hard to keep it that way. “Sorry I disturbed your sleep.”

Ellie used one hand to grip Sherlock’s knee and the other to grab the edge of the cushion she was kneeling on. Then she leaned over the side, somehow keeping her balance, and stage-whispered to Molly, “I wasn’t sleeping.”

As Molly laughed and Sherlock frowned, Ellie righted herself on the cushion and looked very proud of herself.

“You’re meant to have something of a normal sleep schedule,” Sherlock argued, but it sounded very half-hearted and weak. Likely because he rarely kept any such thing himself. Molly had become used to getting calls in the middle of the night from him ranting about a scene that wouldn’t work or the edits some idiots were insisting on. He’d also shown up at her place once or twice, or insisted she came to her office far before it was even open.

Ellie looked at him like he’d told her the sky was green and the grass blue and expected her to believe it. “Sleeping’s boring,” she protested insistently.

Molly snickered, grinning at Sherlock. “Well we all know where she gets that.”

Sherlock gave her a fierce look, and then reached out to pull Ellie closer to him. “I take it there’s no chance of you sleeping more?” He asked, loosely gripping her shoulders and looking her in the eyes.

Ellie shook her head rapidly back and forth, her hair swinging loosely along. “Nope.”

Sherlock sighed, giving up the hope of a peaceful morning. “All right then.” He let go of her shoulders to ruffle her hair, making Ellie pull away and make a face at him. “Go wash up and we’ll find something to eat.” 

“Yay!” Ellie shouted excitedly, springing up from the cushion. She jumped off the sofa to land on both feet, and then ran back around the side of the sofa to disappear down the hallway.

“Slow down!” Sherlock warned, calling over the back of the sofa. But the door to Ellie’s room had already slammed shut.

The two of them sat and stood in silence for a while until Molly finally voiced what she had been thinking. “She takes after you, you know. A lot.”

Sherlock was still watching the hallway over the back of the sofa. “I’m well aware. For some reason people continue to feel the need to tell me so.”

“Mmm,” Molly hummed, not sure how to respond to that. When she’d been given the responsibility of being Sherlock’s sole contact with their publishing company, she’d heard and also been told the horror stories of how rude and dismissive and impossible he could be. But no one had told her, or it was possible no one had known, he had a daughter and that he doted on her like she was the most important thing in the world.

And somehow she, Molly Hooper, had been given the amazing gift of being brought into their confidence and allowed glimpses into their private world. It was something she would never risk giving up, even with how impossible Sherlock could be at times.

Right now it wasn’t time to dwell on her thoughts though. She was here for a reason. Molly cleared her throat and prompted, “So, the launch party…?”

Sherlock sighed, tearing his eyes away from the hallway to look at her. “Is it absolutely pertinent I come? People will buy the books whether or not I’m actually there.”

“True,” Molly allowed, because Sherlock preferred the truth. “But people would be more inclined to buy them if you were there and they could hear you talk.” At the look he gave her Molly amended, “Or at the very least have you sign their copies.”

“As if my signature makes the books worth any more,” Sherlock sniffed, frowning. But Molly was fairly sure his resolve was weakening.

“You don’t have to talk to anyone, Sherlock,” Molly said as persuasively as she could. Then she thought about it. “Well, maybe a few words when you’re signing their books. But other than that you can just smile and wave mostly.”

“As if smiling and waving is any better than actually having to speak with them,” Sherlock grumbled irritably, crossing his arms.

He was refusing to look directly at her again. “Please, Sherlock. I know you can do this.” Molly tried to think of another way to persuade him since her current method wasn’t working all the way. “If you go and just pretend to be nice then more people will buy your book. Which will mean good press for you and more royalties from people buying and reading it.” She shrugged, holding out her hands. “Isn’t that something you want?”

“If you mean ‘is people reading my book something I want,’ then yes,” Sherlock replied, speaking rapidly. “And since more often than not buying a book is for the purpose to read it then yes I suppose I do want them to buy it.” He pressed his lips together. “However I still don’t see how my being present at this event will influence the readers.”

Molly took a moment to let that sink in. Once she had, Molly replied, “It might help convince more people to buy it. Readers like seeing the author advertising their book. It makes them feel more… connected. Like you’re a real person.”

“I am a real person,” Sherlock pointed out in the contradictory way he had. “However, since you seem to be so insistent on my coming to this idiotic event… and under the impression my being there will have an actual influence on sales…” He sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “I suppose I can make an appearance.”

Just as Molly was feeling a surge of pride at her success, Sherlock held up a warning finger. “However, I refuse to stay for the entire event. An hour or two at the most, that should be more than enough time to be seen and to talk to people. And,” he concluded, “If it’s absolutely necessary, I can sign a book or two.”

Well… it was better than Sherlock not going. And she’d learned to compromise when it came to Sherlock. An hour or two would have to be enough.

“Where are we going?” Ellie asked, her head popping up over the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock and Molly both turned to look over at her grinning, eager face.

“Not we, Ellie,” Sherlock corrected gently. “You are going to stay here with Mrs. Hudson tonight while I go to… a party.”

Ellie apparently neither heard nor shared her father’s disgust with such things. If it was possible her grin spread even wider, and she started bouncing on her toes. “A party? You’re going to a party? I can come too, right?”

“Ellie, you aren’t listening,” Sherlock scolded. He sat up and moved along the couch until he was closer to her. “I will be going to this… launch party event. You will be home spending time with Mrs. Hudson.”

As Ellie protested and pouted by turns, Molly added in an attempt to be helpful, “It probably wouldn’t be any fun for you, Ellie. There will a lot of people there, and your dad will just be talking to some of them and signing books. I don’t think you would have any fun if you came.”

Ellie seemed to take a few minutes to consider this as Sherlock and Molly waited. Then finally she slumped down onto the arm of the sofa with a loud sigh, draping herself over it. “Fiiine, but it’d be nice to be invited.”

Molly and Sherlock shared a long look over the few feet of distance between them. Finally Sherlock sighed and tilted his head to the side as he addressed his daughter, “Eleanor Violet Allison Holmes, would you like to accompany me to a boring publishing launch party full of mindless idiotic fans?”

Ellie propped her chin in her hands, elbows digging into the arm of the couch. She considered the offer for a long moment, humming quietly to herself as she thought.

Then finally Ellie raised her head again to look between the two of them. “Thanks, but no.” She decided. “I don’t really want to go.”

Appearing to be fighting back a smile, Sherlock nodded gravely. “All right then. Thank you for considering.” He sighed dramatically. “I suppose, I will just have to suffer through the party by myself. Hopefully I’ll survive.”

Ellie ducked her head giggling, shoulders shaking with laughter. When she ran out of breath she drew in a ragged gasp and pushed herself up again. “I know you will, Dad.” Ellie said with sincere confidence.

“Thank you, Ellie,” Sherlock thanked her gratefully. He reached out and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder then squeezed. “Now, how does a little food sound?”


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson lifted his heavy head at the sound of yet another stack of thick, paper-filled files hitting the surface of his desk.

He sighed sharply through his teeth before letting his head fall back down to rest on the desk. 

He’d been doing paperwork all day. When was a nice, interesting murder going to happen? Not that he wanted someone to get killed... of course not. He just wanted something to investigate, or at least to get away from his desk. Even if it was just a simple ‘Jack killed Bill over Jill.’

“Long day, John?” A familiar voice asked kindly from off to John’s left.

John jerked upright, the creaky springs of his chair protesting the movement. “Sir! Sorry, I was just… resting my eyes…” He made a sudden attempt to organize his desk, as if the Captain hadn’t already seen the mess it was.

“That’s alright, I understand,” Greg said, patting John on his shoulder. “You’ve been doing paperwork all day, and I’m all too familiar with that horror.” He shook his head. “It actually seems like I have more paperwork now.”

“It does never seem to end,” John admitted, using a hand to prop up his tired head. “But at the end of the day we’re still putting away criminals, so I suppose that’s some comfort.”

Greg laughed, but his expression was thoughtful. “I suppose.”

They sat and stood in silence, Greg leaning against the desk and John trying very hard to keep his head upright.

Suddenly a phone began to ring a few desks away; but not at his, which meant John wasn’t responsible for answering it.

The phone rang a few more times before finally stopping. Greg and John shared a look; if the phone had stopped then someone had likely answered it, meaning something- probably trouble- was about to happen.

“Escape while you can,” Greg stage-whispered to John, leaning in close. “Go get a coffee or something.”

John frowned skeptically. “I don’t drink coffee,” he reminded his friend- and boss.

Greg laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Yes you do, John. I’ve seen you.” When John tried to protest, Greg spoke over him. “All right, sure you prefer tea. But don’t think I haven’t noticed Clara or Sally handing a cup of coffee over to you when they go.”

John clamped his lips together, realizing that unfortunately Greg did have a point. He still preferred the taste of tea to the taste of coffee, even so far from home.

“All right then,” John said reluctantly. “Maybe I will go get a coffee. Or tea.” At the thought of what passed as tea in the break room, John made a face. Hot water and tea bags. And the coffee wasn’t much better.

Greg shook his head. “That won’t do you any good,” he disagreed. “One cup of that stuff and you’ll just need more again in an hour.” Greg nodded his chin towards the lift doors at the other end of the room. “Get out of the precinct, go down to that coffee shop you like.”

John blinked, surprised. “But that’s all the way down the road! I’m supposed to be here doing paperwork.” 

“And you’re no good to me without it. Or if you fall asleep,” Greg told him firmly. “Paperwork is important, but it helps if it’s comprehensible.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” John agreed with a sharp laugh. It wasn’t any good doing paperwork if he was only forced to do it all over again.

And if he were away from whatever was happening, then he wouldn’t be pulled into something that might mean more paperwork. Especially if it was something involving politics. He despised politics.

And if the call turned out to be about a new case, Clara or Sally would ring him. Until then, escape was the best option.

As John was standing up and stretching- apparently he’d been sitting far too long- Clara stood up from her desk and walked over.

“Boss?” She asked, stopping in between John’s desk and the next one over. “Call for you…”

Greg pushed off from the desk with his hip and turned to face her, arms crossed, “Who is it? And please don’t say the Mayor.”

Clara’s mouth twisted as she fought to turn her smile into an apologetic frown. “It’s the Mayor.”

Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he lifted his head again, he said, “All right, let’s get this over with.”

“Sorry boss,” Clara said apologetically. She stepped out of Greg’s path as he walked around the desk then past her. “I would have tried to distract him more, but it is the Mayor. There’s only so much I can do.”

“I appreciate it, Clara,” Greg told her as they both walked away from John’s desk. “It’s not your fault. This is technically my responsibility, even given how much of an interfering pain the man can be.”

John waited until they were out of hearing several desks away before he pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and slid it on. He picked his mobile off the top of his desk then slid the top drawer in his desk open and took out his wallet to put it into his pocket.

Once he had everything, John turned away to start walking towards the lift. He was nearly to the end of the rows of desks when a familiar face stepped out in front of him, blocking his path.

John felt his shoulders drop, and he sighed, “Yes, Sally? What can I do for you?”

Sally grinned at him, lips spread wide. “Where are you going?” She pretended to check her watch. “It’s still work hours, unless you know something I don’t.”

“It is still working hours,” John agreed calmly. “But I can’t do any more paperwork until I have either coffee or tea. Otherwise I’m going to be the one committing a murder.”

Sally nodded, letting her arms fall. “I can understand that.” She tilted her head to the side inquiringly, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me out, and buy me a coffee.” Sally raised her hands, palms out. “I’ll owe you one, I promise.”

He wasn’t one to get between a woman and her coffee. Especially Sally. “All right, yes. I suppose I could get you something. But,” he took a step closer to her, “Can you do something for me in return?”

Sally looked skeptical. “Maybe… Just what are you asking for?”

John shrugged one shoulder lightly. “Try to keep things in order while I’m gone? I know how easy it is after a day of doing paperwork to get off task and want to burn off energy…”

“Only that, for a coffee?” Sally asked, eyes wide in surprise. “That’s easy enough.” She shrugged. “Sure.”

“Great. Thanks, Sally,” John said happily, then skirted around her and walked quickly the rest of the way to the lifts before anyone else could stop him.

He was able to get away freely without any more interruptions, and John let out a loud sigh of relief as the lift doors closed in front of him.

By the time the lift arrived at the ground floor and the doors sounded with a quiet ‘ping’, John was leaning back against the wall letting it support his weight. But as soon as the doors slid open John pushed off the wall to stand upright on his own again, ready to face whoever might be on the other side.

Thankfully there wasn’t anyone else on the other side. Just a group of officers hovering nearby waiting.

Most of them either smiled at him or nodded, but he didn’t really know any of them personally. John smiled back as best he could given how tired he was, and walked past all of them heading straight for the front doors of the station.

It was a straight path to the doors, except for a few times when he had to step around people who didn’t move in time. He took the four steps down to the doors to the street, and pushed two of them open.

Almost immediately the chilly, frost-edged breeze of the city in late fall turning to winter hit him like an invisible wall. John took a deep breath of cold air and stepped past the threshold onto the pavement.

Every time the fall started to turn to winter, and the weather turned from bearably cool to bone-chillingly cold, John was reminded how much he disliked New York in the winter season. If he didn’t enjoy being a detective so much, John thought he probably wouldn’t have stayed here.

The coffee shop he liked was a few streets away, nearly a ten-minute walk. Just enough time to clear his head and get something to drink before he’d be called back to the station.

There weren’t many people out at this time. So luckily he had a quiet, uninterrupted walk to the shop. Not that it was usually busy.

The coffee shop only had a few patrons sitting at the tables, so he was able to go straight to the counter and order. The barista was as helpful as usual, ringing up and making his drinks right away by herself.

Holding a carrier with Sally’s coffee and his own drink in his free hand, John made his way out of the shop by pushing the door open.

If possible, it was even chillier outside now. The sooner he got out of this weather and inside a solid building the better.

As he was walking a different route- just to keep things interesting- John noticed a bookstore across the street during a pause to sip his coffee. A bookstore that had a notice for Sherlock Holmes’ new book, with a poster inviting customers to “Pre-order now!”

Well, this just seemed like a day of happy coincidences. He had been meaning to pre-order the book for a while now.

John stepped to the edge of the pavement, looked both ways down the street, then crossed and went to the bookstore.

The bookseller was extremely helpful with helping him pre-order the book. He reassured John they would let him know as soon as his copy was ready to be picked-up. In a month or so.

A month seemed ridiculously long, even if John was usually a patient man. Once his order was confirmed, he picked up the drinks carrier again and left the store. Just in time for his mobile to begin vibrating in his pocket.

His mobile always rang at the most inconvenient times, and always because someone needed him. Couldn’t he even finish his coffee first?

John slid his coffee into the empty space in the carrier then used his now free hand to dig in his pocket and pull out his mobile. He managed to answer before it rang out, raising the mobile to his ear.

“Watson…”

Sally’s far too cheerful voice answered, “Detective Watson, today is your day. We have a case.”

John perked up at this exciting news. “What kind of case? An exciting murder, or a good old-fashioned case?”

He didn’t mention the possibility of it being a boring case, because he didn’t want to jinx them in any way. And if it wasn’t an exciting case then he wouldn’t look forward to it as much.

“Mm, an intriguing one I’d say.” Sally answered, giving an answer he hadn’t expected. “If I hadn’t been a cop all these years, I’d say it was a locked room mystery.”

That made it even more interesting. He never could turn down a good mystery. Especially one that appeared to be unsolvable. All though he didn’t believe any murder was completely unsolvable now, mostly thanks to one Sherlock Holmes. And it was part of his personal code to not let any mystery go unsolved, or any victims go without justice if it was at all within his power.

He didn’t want anyone else to share the horror and pain of not knowing. Especially the not knowing what had happened to their loved ones. He’d barely survived and came out the other side when it had happened to him. And he was stronger than many people out there.

“A locked room mystery? What kind of locked room?” John asked as he started to walk back in the direction of the precinct.

“Well, it’s strange actually…” Sally admitted, and John could envision her shrugging uneasily. “Seems a call came in earlier from a building manager about a tenant who no one had seen for a few days and their place was locked up securely. When the uniforms went out to investigate they found… well, signs of a murder in the tenant's office. No confirmation on the supposed victim yet, but the office and apartment belonged to a… John MacFarland?”

"So someone was murdered in the man's office and he just happens to be missing," John summarized, it was part of his thought process. "That seems awfully suspicious. Is there anyway to tell whose body it is?" He quickly added, "I know Sarah will have to perform the official ID, but..."

"That might be a problem, boss," Sally quickly interjected. She sounded... annoyed? But also a little confused. She must have found something else that was strange. "There's a reason I said our supposed victim. You see..." Sally trailed off, like she was having trouble wrapping her head around this next fact. But before he could call her on it Sally resumed talking. "There isn’t... a body, exactly."

John stopped walking abruptly and took the phone away from his ear to stare at it. He couldn't have possibly misheard her could he? "Sorry, Sally," John apologized, putting the phone back to his ear again, "you'll have to say that again. I thought you said-"

"You didn't mishear me, John," Sally told him, a little more harshly than normal. "There isn't a body in the office at our murder scene. Instead there's... God, this is so ridiculous," Sally said, muttering to herself. Then she continued at a normal level, "There's a pile of what looks very much like human ashes and bones."

John fought the urge to stare at his phone again, as if that would make any difference to help him comprehend what Sally was saying. "Human ashes and bones. You're serious."

"Very," Sally confirmed. "So you might imagine it's a little difficult to say who our supposed victim is, or when they died even. Hopefully Sarah will be able to match it, by some miracle, but..."

Bones and ashes, really? The strange and bizarre cases often tended to land on his desk because he had a reputation for being able to solve them. But this appeared to be a very odd one compared to the others he’d come across. Odd, but it had to have some practical solution. Didn’t it? Either way he had to follow through with this one.

John started walking again at a much faster pace in the direction of the precinct. But then he realized everyone was probably at the scene already ahead of him and stopped. “Anything else you need to tell me now, or can the rest of it wait until I’m there with you?”

Sally hummed, considering the question. Then she started telling him in rapid-fire succession, “There were ashes from papers someone set on fire in the fireplace. It must have been something they really didn’t want anyone to see. All that was left were tiny scraps; we can’t tell what they were. And no sign of forced entry into the office, it was locked when the first officers got there. Obviously there was signs someone had been there, but that was all we could find.”

“Is that all we have to go on?” John asked her, preferring to get all the facts before starting his investigation. “Some burnt papers and possibly human ashes?”

Sally made a quiet aggravated noise. “There was also an umbrella left near the door of the office, one that doesn’t match the others MacFarland owned.” 

“So, someone else was in that office with our supposed victim. That does help.” John agreed, wishing he had a hand free so he could take notes. “It doesn’t necessarily mean they were our murderer though. What else did you find?”

“They’re still searching the scene right now, so more evidence will probably show up soon,” Sally advised, and now he could hear other voices in the background. “But the victim had a calendar on his desk. And every Thursday afternoon he had the same initials written down for the same time. The handwriting is pretty illegible but it looks like a ‘K.R.’ We found an address book but there’s no one with those initials.”

That was an excellent start. Especially since it could turn into a possible lead. “Sounds good, Sally. So where exactly are you, I’ll meet you there.”

“Everyone else is already here.” Sally let him know.

In the meantime, John was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “I have your coffee, Sally. If you tell me where you are I can bring it right to you.”

Sally sighed, “You’re a devious man, John Watson. But I need coffee so I’ll let it go this time.” She rattled off an address that wasn’t too far away from him and John quickly memorized it. “We’ll see you when you get here.”

“Thanks Sally, I’ll-” John stopped mid-sentence when he heard the line click on the other end. Sally had hung up on him before he could even finish.

John released a long, tired sigh, letting the tension seep away. Then he locked the phone and slid it back into his pocket, making sure it wasn’t the same pocket with his wallet.

The address Sally had told him wasn’t close enough to walk, and he didn’t want to take the subway unless he absolutely had to. A cab would be more expensive but faster. And speed was necessary.

Luckily he was on a busy street and it wasn’t rush hour just yet. John looked around before deciding to try the street corner.

Today was one of the better days for catching a cab. It only took two tries to get one to stop for him.


	3. Chapter 3

The building John found himself standing in front of once he’d climbed out of the cab looked like any other multi-storey brownstone in the city. The apartment he’d lived in when he’d first come to New York had looked much like this one. 

John smiled a greeting to the officer with the misfortune of being posted on the door and missing all the excitement upstairs. Or maybe it was better he was down here and couldn’t see what had happened. Murder scenes were rarely welcome on the eyes or stomach.

This seemed to be one of the few buildings in the city that didn’t have a lift, so he was forced to climb all the flights of stairs to the top floor of the building. There was another officer at the top of the stairs near the victim’s apartment. He lifted the crime scene tape and let John slip underneath.

John had only walked a few steps when Sally appeared from an open doorway and fell into step beside him. She flashed a smile briefly at him before her eyes latched on the coffee carrier.

“Is that my coffee?” Sally asked wondrously, reaching out. “Give it over now… please.”

“Yes Sally,” John gave in easily. He carefully lifted out Sally’s coffee cup and handed it over to her.

She took it, her fingers wrapping possessively around the paper cup. Sally lifted it to her lips and took a long, hearty sip. Once she swallowed she lowered the cup and sighed happily, “God I hate paperwork.”

“I’d worry about you if you didn’t,” John said with a chuckle. “It’s just one of the consequences of the job.”

Sally eyed him sidelong, warily. “I really don’t understand how you can still be so positive in this line of work.” She took another long sip of her coffee, two fingers tapping against the paper cup holder. When she was done Sally added, “You’re not really like the rest of us though, are you?”

Before John could protest against that statement- sure he hadn’t come into this job like most officers, but he was absolutely just as committed as the others- Sally nodded down the hall to where John could see people moving around in the room at the end. “That’s why I think you’re going to like this one.” 

She started walking down the hallway and John quickly followed, the wooden floorboards groaning under their feet. So far it looked like the tenant had used the front area mainly as his living quarters. Most of the floor was open, with a hallway that led from one end towards the back of the building near the stairs. On one side of the hallway were two doors with nothing to indicate what they were for. The main largest room took up most of the back area, but was walled off with a door and window of frosted glass.

The officers had the door propped open and were moving around taking notes and photographs in the room. It was only when he and Sally stopped outside the doorway that John was able to read the faded, likely once gold lettering of ‘John McFarland, Personal Attorney.’

The name didn’t sound familiar at all, but lawyers were the type of people others adored for winning cases and getting them money or completely despised for losing their cases and depriving them of money. John had never encountered many cases with lawyers as the victim. Persons of interest or suspects occasionally yes, but rarely the actual murder victims.

From the look of the room, and what had happened to their supposed victim, this was a lawyer someone hadn’t cared for at all. John cast a quick glance around the room that seemed to have served mainly as an office. The uniforms were taking pictures as well as processing and examining the scene while at the same time being careful as they moved around. They were doing excellent work.

The umbrella Sally had mentioned earlier over the phone- the one left behind by someone and unlike the tenant’s- was wrapped in an oversized evidence bag and sitting in a evidence bin that had been set aside. John made a mental note to specifically mention to Sarah to have it dusted for fingerprints. If anyone could find prints on it she could.

One of the officers was carefully picking out what was left of the papers from the fireplace and dropping the pieces into an evidence bag. Maybe what was left could help them figure out what it had once been for. And last, but most interesting, were the supposedly human ashes and bones sealed inside another evidence bag. Sarah would have to look closely at them and match any possible records, but for now they’d suspect it as the owner of this place. The ashes of the papers and potentially human remains could hopefully give them more information about what had happened. Their problem now was figuring out what exactly had happened to the tenant or where he was if he wasn’t dead.

Sally had mentioned an appointment book found on the victim’s desk, with a specific recurring appointment every week. John located the desk where it was lodged between the window and the wall on the far side of the room from him. The desk was stacked high with law-related books on one side and a large monthly desk calendar that took up most of the rest of the desk, except for the lamp and stack of lined notepads. John walked over to it, skirting around the other busy officers.

The calendar was typical of most monthly desk calendars. There were multiple appointments at different times once or twice a week, usually with different clients names. But every single week, on the same day, at the same time, were the sloppy initials ‘K.R.’ or ‘R.L.’ 

Of course there was no more information about who the person belonging to those initials was, or what the appointment was for, or why it was necessary to have every week, on the calendar. Since it was very likely this person had been the last to see the victim alive, it was a high priority to track them down as quickly as possible.

John pulled the extra pair of gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. Then he picked up a pen lying beside the calendar, neatly in line, and used it to flip through the last few months worth of appointments. The calendar only went back four months, but every week still had the same appointment for ‘K.L.’ or ‘R.L.’ scribbled in. So their relationship went back at least four months.

He replaced the pen next to the calendar and half-turned, planning to call Sally over and ask for an update. But then John had a thought, and he cast a careful second glance over the surface of the desk. He didn’t find the address book or daily planner he was looking for, or at least its owner didn’t keep it readily at hand out on the desk.

“Sally!” John called, turning his head over his shoulder. While he waited for her to walk over John opened the top drawer of the desk and started leafing through the papers inside. They looked like receipts of some kind.

“Yes, boss?” Sally responded, appearing next to him like some kind of spirit. It was a strange but useful talent she had, appearing silently at the right time near him. “Did you find something?”

John shook his head. “It’s more like what I haven’t found.” He closed the drawer he had been looking through and opened the next drawer down. “Has anyone come across this MacFarland fellow’s phone yet? He has to have had one, right? Or an address book of some kind.”

“No one’s mentioned finding one yet,” Sally told him, glancing around the room. “But he could have left it behind somewhere. Or maybe it fell behind something?”

“Both possible,” John agreed, closing the second drawer he hadn’t had any luck with. “But we have to follow our due diligence, don’t we.” John considered the last drawer as he continued talking, “And if we do find it, it’ll help us with tracking down family and friends.”

Sally was nodding along considering, “It would save us an awful lot of work.” She looked over to where a few officers had gathered together to talk. “I’ll go ask.”

He turned to follow her path as she walked away across the room. “Ask someone to find the building manager or landlady or whoever it was who first called so we can ask them questions too,” John called after her.

“Right!” Sally answered in agreement as she moved away.

John decided to open the bottom drawer after all, but was only met with the sight of black leather bound notebooks. Curious, John picked up the topmost one and let it fall open in his hand. All he found inside were lined notebook pages with the same scrawled handwriting as on the calendar on top of the desk. John couldn’t read the handwriting, but hopefully they could find something useful in them .

He waved one of the officers over and instructed him to make sure to take all of the notebooks with them back to the station. Once the officer agreed John stood up again and surveyed the room. Everyone seemed to be doing their assigned tasks at the moment, and he hadn’t found anything himself, so he waited for Sally to come back with her news.

This time as John looked around, a picture frame hanging beside the bookcase on the wall behind him caught his eye. It was slightly crooked, not at a severe angle but enough to be noticeable.

And, for some reason John couldn’t understand yet, it made the nagging in the back of his mind even louder. All of this, for some reason he couldn’t figure out yet, looked familiar.

John moved away from the desk and carefully crossed the room, stopping in front of the crooked painting. He stood, studying it. There was a protesting creak of floorboards as Sally stopped beside him.

“Boss?” She asked, in the quiet way she’d come to learn would get his attention but not completely distract him.

“What news do you have, Sally?” John inquired, turning to look at her.

Sally lifted a shoulder, a habit she had for when she had bad news to tell him but wasn’t sure how to share. “No phone, at least not yet. And no sign of an address book either.” She gave him a judging look. “You know, he might have used his phone for everything. A lot of people do these days.”

“True,” John grudgingly agreed. “But still, ask them to keep looking.”

Sally sighed heavily. “All right. I suppose they might still find something. At least some lead we can use.”

“Hopefully,” John agreed with the same silent hope. “What about the building manager?”

Sally’s lips pressed together into a tight line. “Still looking. She was the one who called earlier about the MacFarland person who owns this place, and helped us find this… crime scene. But now she isn’t in her apartment or anywhere in the building we can find.”

“Strange,” John commented. “Maybe we can find the first officers who arrived here.” His eyes caught on the picture frame again, and it renewed his curiosity about its peculiarness. “Do you have on your gloves?”

Sally raised her hands into his line of sight and waggled her bright blue latex glove covered fingers at him. “Of course I do.”

She was always insistent on following procedure; it didn’t surprise him at all that she did. “Excellent. Take that picture down, will you? I’m sure there’s a safe behind it that we’ll be interested in.” He nodded at the painting they were standing in front of.

“A safe?” Sally echoed. But she did take a step closer and reached out to take hold of each side of the frame. Then, with a grunt of effort Sally lifted the frame up and away from the wall.

The wonderful sight of an approximately foot-by-foot metal door of a safe, complete with turn style, met their eyes. At first glance the door appeared to be closed and locked, but John reached out to hook a gloved finger under the bottom and gently pulled. There was a quiet click before the door swung open towards them, silent on its hinges.

Inside the safe was the real prize; a single manila folder with the words ‘confidential’ stamped in large red inked letters across the top.

Sally sighed loudly in frustration. Apparently the coffee wasn’t helping as much as she’d hoped. “A folder? That’s what you thought we’d be so interested in?”

“Look closer, Sally,” John instructed, pointing a finger at the folder. “It’s stamped with ‘confidential,’ so it’s obviously important. But look at it, its empty. There aren’t any of the confidential papers.”

Sally glanced at him then leaned closer to the safe and carefully, with a fingertip, pried open the folder. All they saw was the other side of the folder. “No papers,” she confirmed, withdrawing her finger. “So whoever was in here, after they killed our victim, took the papers?” Sally grimaced before shaking her head. “They can’t have just been after a file of important papers.”

“Whoever it was went to extreme lengths not just to steal the papers, but also to kill his victim and leave some of him behind for us to find,” John reminded her, feeling his own skepticism about this crime rising. “And if he did do all this himself, that was extremely personal.”

Sally tilted her head, looking puzzled. “I don’t get it. He obviously killed the victim and even burnt the body somewhere else. But then why would he bring what was left of the body back here and leave it for us? If he hadn’t done that we wouldn’t have found it or have known someone died. Not so soon anyway.”

John took the time to consider Sally’s excellent question. “That is curious, you’re right. Probably the best answer is that whoever it was left the remains here to mock us. To show the police what he could do if he wanted to.” He eyed the floor in front of the fireplace where the pile of ashes had been found. “But then again, it was an unnecessary risk bringing those ashes into the building and up here into this room. If someone had seen him he would have had a hard time explaining. And would have been caught.”

“Another good question,” Sally began, tapping a finger against her chin, “is why the papers were so important the murderer came here for them? And didn’t risk killing our victim here in the apartment with all these papers and files around that could have been damaged?”

“He would definitely have had to plan all this out before going after his victim,” John agreed, thinking out loud since it always helped him and so Sally could offer her own input. “This wasn’t a murder he committed at an opportune moment, or in a fit of anger. He planned everything out and likely had a place chosen to kill his victim. And he knew the best route to get here from that place.”

“All of this was probably pre-planned months in advance. He knew every little detail of what he was going to do.” Sally turned to face him, a determined fire in her eyes now. The one that meant she would do nearly anything to get their man. It was what made her a top officer, but also part of why she often let her head rule the path to find rightful justice. “We need to figure out who this creep is and find him so we can lock him away.”

“As long as it’s the right man and he’s guilty,” he agreed, firmly enunciating his words as a reminder.

The officers were collecting the last of the evidence, bagging it and writing descriptions in black felt pen on the labels. All the filled bags were already piled in the plastic bin one of the other uniforms was carrying around, handling it like it was something fragile. Hopefully something in at least one of those bags would be helpful.

“I think we’re done here, Sally,” John announced, taking one last glance around the crime scene. “We’ll have to go back to the precinct and hope Sarah can work her magic with what we found. We have enough evidence for her to look through hopefully she’ll find at least one thing we can work with. With her expertise she’ll have something for us by tomorrow morning.”

“Sir?” A young female voice inquired from next to them. “I may have found something.”

John looked over to see another officer, a woman he had worked with before. What was her name again? “Yes, Perkins? What did you find?”

She smiled nervously at him before catching herself and standing straighter. “I was looking closer at the calendar, and noticed this piece of paper underneath it. It could be just a doodle, but it’s... strange, sir.”

John smiled encouragingly back at her. “As you likely know, I enjoy the strange.” He held out a hand patiently. “I’d like to see it.”

“All yours, sir,” Perkins offered, handing over a plastic evidence bag with a piece of torn notepad paper inside. “Just, let me know what it is? Please?” She added in a quieter voice, “I enjoy puzzles too.”

He took the bag from her, plastic bag crinkling in his hand. “I’ll let you know when we find out. Thank you, Perkins.”

She smiled at him then walked away towards one of her fellow officers.

John took the chance to look down at the note or doodle or whatever it was Perkins had found. And as soon as he looked more closely at it, he knew exactly why all of this had seemed oddly familiar. The nagging abruptly ceased and became a twisted kind of logic. The pile of (supposed) human ashes, the burnt papers, the open safe, and the recurring appointment on the calendar… it all came together. And it looked like Sally had been right, they were dealing with some kind of creep… but a well read one.

“Sally, have one of the officers check for fingerprints out in the hall or by the stairway,” he instructed her, talking rapidly as he thought of things and tried to cover all the possibilities that were coming to him. “Also, have whoever talks to the building manager, or whatever they’re called, ask if there’s any hidden passages or tunnels in the building. Or any hollow spaces large enough for someone to hide. Make sure the officer gets all the relevant information they can and report back either to you, Clara, or me as soon as possible.” 

He turned on his heel and rushed out of the room as quickly as he could. Just before he stepped out into the hallway John glanced quickly at the evidence bin. “And talk to the first officers who arrived at the scene and get any important information from them. Ring me as soon as you find anything!” John called over his shoulder in Sally’s general direction.

Only it turned out he didn’t have to yell because she was almost directly behind him, still following his steps. “Boss, I don’t want to second guess that you know what you’re doing,” Sally let him know as they thundered down the flights of stairs in unison. “But what on earth are you talking about? We’ve got supposedly human ashes and burnt papers, mysterious initials for an appointment on a calendar, and an open safe. Yet as soon as you see a torn piece of paper with strange doodles, you start talking about fingerprints and hidden tunnels or passageways?”

John paused at the bottom of the stairs in the narrow hallway that led to the outside door. He waited until she finished to answer in a soft voice less anyone overhear, “I know it doesn’t seem to make any sense, Sally. But I’ve seen this before somewhere. That piece of paper was what finally helped me realize what this all is.”

Sally crossed her arms, one eyebrow lifting to let him know how little she understood what he was saying. “A paper with strange doodles helped you realize this is a murder scene? And a pretty gruesome one at that?”

He waved her words away with his hand. “No, I knew it was a crime scene. I meant what kind of scene this is. Those weren’t doodles on the paper, it was a note. A last message from our victim, who was trying to tell us something. Or a note from the murderer to our victim.”

“Well that’s only helpful if you know how to decode it,” Sally acknowledged. “Or know what the doodles mean.”

“I don’t,” John admitted, flashing a grin at her before he turned and started walking towards the door. “But I do know who may have originally invented the code.”

“What? Boss, boss what does that mean?” Sally shouted after him, but by then he was already at the front door.

“The dancing men, that’s our clue!”


	4. Chapter 4

The so-called launch party had already been going on for a little more than an hour, and Sherlock was incredibly bored.

It wasn’t even a proper party. He’d absolutely refused to have an extravagant, rowdy, gathering with cheap, overflowing drinks and skinny models, at some popular dinner club. That wasn’t for him, and it wasn’t right for his book.

So at the moment he was currently sitting on the floor of the biography section in a small, family run bookstore known only to locals and away from the more popular areas of the city. These smaller bookstores were the only kind he could stand or felt comfortable in, with the fragrant smell of old books and closely placed bookshelves. It was where he had started after all, and where he discovered his ideas for his first great novel.

An entertainment journalist had been there earlier. But once the interview began Sherlock quickly became annoyed with the journalist’s idiotic, pestering, irrelevant questions, and then it had taken barely any time at all for him to make the man run off upset. Molly had noticed the quickly growing conflict and had started over towards them, likely to reassure the idiotic journalist and to answer questions on his behalf. She was so much better with the press then he was, yet for some reason she insisted on trying to help him get along with the press. So Sherlock had quickly run the journalist off before Molly was even halfway to them.

After the journalist ran out the door, briefcase clutched to his chest, Molly came over from where she’d been rearranging the display of his books for the last several minutes since. She stood over him, only watching.

Then finally, with an exasperated sigh, she sank slowly to the floor to sit opposite him on the carpet, her legs tucked neatly underneath her.

Molly clasped her hands together on her lap, pressing her thumbs together in the absentminded way she did when thinking hard. She frowned deeply, staring at a point somewhere over his shoulder.

Sherlock tried and successfully ignored her, reading the book he’d previously taken off the shelf at random. It wasn’t very interesting so far, but it was preferable to listening to Molly scold him yet again for being antisocial and uninterested in the success of his own book. He tried not to let her know, but he did actually care about such things… He just paid her to care more.

He flipped to the next page in the book, which Molly apparently took as an opportunity to start a conversation.

“That was likely your last and only chance at an even remotely positive review, you know,” Molly turned her head slightly to look directly at him. “I’d ask if you’re pleased with yourself, but you probably are.”

Sherlock used his finger to mark his place in the book then slowly closed it over his finger. He placed his other hand on top of the book and gave her a level look. “I doubt that ridiculous excuse for a human being has even read one of my novels, not even a single page. His review would have likely been almost entirely made up and full of complete nonsense. I don’t want any potential readers to depend on a review in the papers from someone like that. If I wanted a real review of my novel, I would write it myself.”

“And that would definitely be subjective,” Molly commented quietly under her breath.

“You’re mistaken in thinking it necessary to advertise my novel with a review to convince people to read it, Molly,” Sherlock told her seriously. “If those who have read my previous novels are interested, or if someone comes in and is intrigued by the dust jacket, they can read it if they like but I won’t force them.”

Molly shook her head insistently, brown hair sweeping back and forth across her shoulders. “You can’t just rely on people wanting to read it, Sherlock. You need to pique their interest first, to appeal to them.” She leaned in closer over the aisle. “That’s why we’re here, Sherlock. It’s best to advertise your book in person.”

He scoffed derisively and pressed his back against the bookcase behind him. “And that appears to have worked well given all the potential readers I’ve met and the books I’ve signed tonight.”

Molly’s hands clenched into fists, fingers clasped so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I-I tried Sherlock. But you said no fancy parties, nothing with alcohol and scantily clad celebrities, also no bars, or fancy restaurants, or pretty much anywhere these kinds of parties are typically held. So I had to find somewhere for your party. But it turns out, surprisingly, you have a bit of a reputation in this city. Even despite your brothers influence.”

Molly’s eyes flared wide and an instant later she snapped her mouth closed. The mad rambling finally coming to a halt. Instead she stared at him, a horrified look in her eyes. “God, Sherlock. I’m-”

“Don’t,” Sherlock snapped bitterly, pressing the book tightly to his chest. “I’m well aware of that man’s power. Yet, most of my reputation is unfounded. It’s completely outside my control.”

The very side of Molly’s mouth twitched behind the hand pressed over her mouth. “I notice you said ‘most’, not all. Those are a little different.”

Sherlock chose not to bother answering that with words. Instead he lifted his shoulder slightly and looked away from her, down the aisle of books.

Molly made two attempts to try and prod him into conversation. The first time he remained stonily silent until her words finally petered out to a stop. The second attempt he only frowned at her, which seemed to effectively stop her before she could even start.

A few seconds into their enforced silence Sherlock sighed and hung his head. “I expected this city to be different,” he said quietly, mostly to himself. “Fewer idiots, a somewhat satisfying career, and no longer an overbearing archenemy.”

“‘Archenemy’?” Molly echoed, confused. “Who calls anyone their ‘archenemy’?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Would you rather I said nemesis?”

“No, because that’s even more ridiculous,” Molly answered flatly.

“I write crime novels for a living, and am infinitely more brilliant than the majority of the population,” Sherlock stated matter of factly. “My tolerance for idiocy is extremely low.”

Molly gave him her patented completely unimpressed look. “Mm hmm.”

And yet again. “I told you, this city was supposed to be different. It was supposed to be a good change, with new tolerable people and new exciting crimes.” Sherlock sighed, thinking back to how he had come to this country. “Yet all I’ve been doing since I arrived is write crime novels with brilliant plots, which for some incomprehensible reason that is completely beyond my understanding must be dumbed down for the main masses. It isn’t nearly what I expected.”

Molly watched him silently for some seconds before she sighed, shoulders drooping. “We don’t all get what we want, Sherlock. I definitely didn’t expect to have you as a client. Not after finding my break with my own publishing section.”

“Apologies for not meeting your expectations,” Sherlock drawled in somewhat sarcastic apology. He huffed and dropped his chin to his knees.

They sat together in silence until Sherlock heard the scuffing noise of shoes dragging on carpet as it came closer with each creaking step.

He looked up slowly, expecting a lost and confused customer who had somehow managed to find himself or herself in this section. But instead Larry, or was it Harold, was standing at the end of the aisle looking somewhat uncomfortable- as if he had interrupted something more embarrassing than finding them sitting on the floor talking. Of course the man did seem to look up to him. That was probably why.

“Yes?” Sherlock inquired, waiting for the man to speak. Larry-Harold knew him well enough to not interrupt unless he had a reason, not that he and Molly were in the middle of an important conversation.

“There’s-” Larry-Harold coughed when his voice came out rough then tried again. “There’s a man by the register out front asking for you, sir. He said he wants to talk to you, to ask you some questions?”

Finally, a fan. Or someone interested in his novels. “Excellent,” Sherlock replied, slowly pushing himself to his feet using the bookshelf as leverage. “Take me to him, if you would.”

“Try to be a little enthusiastic, Sherlock,” Molly prompted, giving him yet another reminder. “And be nice, you want this person to buy your book.”

Sherlock stood straighter before adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. He had an image to maintain after all. “Yes, of course, Molly. No need to worry.” Sherlock gave her the fake smile he’d practiced to use in the presence of the normal idiotic populace. “I have everything in hand.”

As he turned away to walk towards Larry-Harold, Molly scrambled to her feet. She did so more gracefully than he had, likely because she had taken off the sharp, painful looking heels she’d been wearing in favor of bare feet. But now Molly gripped the bookshelf with one hand as she tried to slip her shoes back on. When not at these events Molly was typically in jeans and blouses and comfortable shoes, clothes she preferred for comfort. It was one of the things Sherlock appreciated about her.

Larry-Harold led him past the other rows of bookshelves towards the front of the store. There weren’t many customers in the store at the moment; Sherlock only saw three as they walked. Then finally they turned the corner around the first bookshelf and arrived in the main entrance of the store.

A short statured man with brownish hair that desperately needed a trim was standing at the side of the wooden counter that served as a register. He was leaning against the counter, staring out the two front windows that looked out onto the street. The man wasn’t wearing a standard police uniform of any kind, but there was something about his stance that said he wasn’t a civilian who had just wandered into the store on a whim.

Sherlock stopped, placing a hand on Larry-Harold’s shoulder. “Thank you, Larry. I’ll take it from here.”

“It’s Barry, sir.”

“Yes, sorry, Barry,” Sherlock patted the shoulder again before quickly removing his hand. “Good man, Barry.”

Sherlock walked towards the counter and the man waiting for him there, his pace quick but not hurried. “What can I do for you? An autograph perhaps? I may even offer you a free copy, if you’d like.”

The man turned around as soon as Sherlock began speaking, blue eyes wide in a surprisingly pale face even for someone who lived in the city. Then as Sherlock continued the surprise faded away into what Sherlock interpreted as amusement, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making his mouth twitch.

It was a strange reaction to have, one that temporarily railroaded Sherlock’s thoughts so that he couldn’t think of any more to say for a second.

The man spoke into the silence, pushing himself away from the counter. “Actually, I’m here to ask you a few questions.” He pulled back his jacket to reveal a badge looped to his belt. “All though I wouldn’t say no to an autograph when we’re finished.”

A fellow Londoner? What was an Englishman doing here in this city, being a policeman of all things? If he truly was a policeman. The accent had faded slightly, the man had likely been in the US for several years, but it was still noticeable enough. Sherlock found himself very intrigued to learn how exactly that had happened. But right now wasn’t the time to ask such questions. There were more important matters.

Sherlock didn’t look away from where the man’s badge and belt were again covered by his jacket. “How do I know you’re actually a policeman? You could have taken that off someone.”

The man’s mouth twitched again. “I could have yeah, if I wanted to get arrested and thrown in jail. But as I’d rather avoid that, thanks, here…”

He slipped a hand inside the front of his jacket and pulled out a well-worn leather wallet. The leather opened easily in his hand, and the man pulled something out from the right side pocket.

“Here,” he coaxed, holding out a small white card- business card- to him. Sherlock took the card and flipped it over to read the plain black text printed in the middle of the card.

“‘Detective John Watson, Third precinct, homicide.’” Sherlock looked up again at the man to study him more closely. He didn’t look very much like Sherlock expected a police detective to look. “You’re a homicide detective.”

"That's what it says there," the Detective confirmed, nodding at the card Sherlock was holding. "Now, I need you to come with me down to the precinct so I can ask you some questions. It won’t take long and there won’t be any charges filed against you. So far, I mean. I just think you’ll have some useful information for us."

Sherlock blinked, momentarily surprised. He'd expected for the man to just shepherd him outside and into the police car that was undoubtedly waiting. Having the reason for being taken by the police explained to him, and reassurance he wasn’t in fact being arrested, was different… and a little nice, actually.

"And what information would that be exactly?" Sherlock asked. It was mostly to convince the detective to be honest, but also to see if the man would actually explain or if he would get annoyed and just take Sherlock away.

The detective, John Watson, only looked taken aback for a very brief moment. Then he smiled and replied, "Well..."

“Excuse me detective, can I help you?” Molly interrupted before the man could continue. “I hope Sherlock hasn’t done anything illegal for him to have caught your attention.”

Sherlock turned to give her a brief glance, noting she had followed him to now stand almost exactly between them. Then he returned his gaze to observe the much more interesting detective.

But in the brief time he hadn't been watching the detective, the amiability had faded away into a curious, polite smile turned convincingly on Molly. "And who might you be?" He asked, clearing his throat as he straightened and pulled his arms closer to his sides.

Molly gave him a small, friendly flicker of a smile and walked closer to him. “Molly Hooper, Mr. Holmes’ publishing agent and all around person who tries very hard to keep him out of trouble.”

The detective let out a short chuckle at this and took her hand to shake it. “Detective John Watson, homicide.”

“So I heard,” Molly commented, dropping his hand more quickly than necessary. “Sherlock isn’t in any kind of trouble, is he? It’s just, we’re in the middle of a sort of event right now…”

To his credit, the detective didn’t let any surprise or confusion- if he experienced such a thing- show. But Sherlock couldn’t help a scoff at the idea of the proceedings of the evening so far being called an event. The detective glanced quickly at Sherlock, was that interest? - before answering Molly, “No, no trouble I promise. There’s just a case I’m investigating at the moment I think he will be able to help us with. He may have very useful information.”

Molly shifted slightly, almost unnoticeable, to put herself directly in between Sherlock and the detective. “I don’t understand… He’s not in trouble or being charged with anything, I expect. Yet you think he has useful information about one of your cases?”

The detective glanced at Sherlock again before he started curling and uncurling his left hand at his side. Curious… a tell or a habit of some kind? “He’s not being charged or is even a suspect. There’s just a case I think he can shed some light on for us. It’s an unusual case and has some specific details I believe Mr. Holmes could give us insight into.”

When Molly didn’t appear to be convinced at all- she may be small and short but she had a temper and could be very stubborn- the detective sighed, and started rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I just need him to come to the precinct with me so we can talk privately about some rather significant- and classified- details about the case. I won’t do it here. I promise it won’t take long, and I won’t charge him with anything. He can have his phone on him the whole time and will be free to ring you if he thinks he needs you. Or he can walk out whenever he wants.”

Molly did look slightly comforted by this, so Sherlock decided to push her the rest of the way. “The detective’s given you his word Molly, I believe you can trust him to keep it. I’ll ring you if I need to, but I am very certain I won’t. It will only be a short round of questions, and it does sound fairly interesting.” He waved his hand to indicate the bookstore around them. “If anything comes up here I know you will be able to handle it.”

It was absolutely below him to plead with her, especially since he didn’t need her permission to go with the detective. But it was important to have her agreement since if something did happen and he did become a suspect, Molly would be the one to rescue him and smooth over everything.

Still she must have understood him, because Molly finally nodded her agreement and relaxed her posture. "Of course he'll go with you then." 

Molly shifted. "He'll go peacefully, I promise." As she continued talking, Molly turned her gaze on Sherlock to give him a warning look. The one that threatened she would bury him in sand with fire ants if he didn't do exactly as she said. He would do his best, he owed that to her. And he also wanted to avoid actually getting into trouble with the detective as much as possible. "No protests, or resisting. He will also give you his full cooperation."

The Detective glanced briefly at Sherlock, assessing, then returned his attention to Molly. "Of course he will, I wouldn't expect anything else," he replied in a perfectly agreeable tone. "Especially from the rather infamous Sherlock Holmes."

Ah, and there it was. The detective did know exactly who he was, or knew there was more to him than just a relatively well-selling mystery writer. Was that why the man wanted him? He was looking for Sherlock’s experience plotting and solving murders? No, that couldn't be. When he'd first come to this place Sherlock had offered his services to the police for any hard to solve or cold cases he might help on. Anything to avoid his brother’s insistence that Sherlock join him in a government position of some sort, doing his public duty- even if this wasn't his home country. But they'd laughed and run him out of every precinct, telling him they could do their jobs perfectly well without any of his 'help.'

But Sherlock didn’t remember seeing this detective that day. All the detectives and officers in the precincts had either ignored him or laughed in his face about how an ‘amateur’ could solve cases better than real police officers. They had told him to go home and stop interrupting important work. None of them had even tried to listen to him or hear what he’d found about the crimes from the news.

Yet this detective, this John Watson, had come to him. He had come to find Sherlock at a public event in order to talk with him and ask him questions. If that wasn’t enough of a surprise, the detective also seemed to have heard of him and his novels.

So Sherlock tamped down the burst of warm feeling building in his chest and forced a pleasant, normal smile to his face. “You’re too kind, detective. However I wouldn’t want to waste your precious time. So please, ask your questions now. Then you can return to your precinct and the important case you’re currently working.”

He had caught the detective off guard, that much was obvious from how the other man blinked and pressed his lips together. To Sherlock’s surprise John Watson actually looked like he was about to possibly argue. That was remarkable; as soon as Sherlock opened his mouth or pretended to be normal everyone else walked away, or insulted him in an attempt to get back at him. No one ever tried to argue with him.

But then Detective John Watson cleared his throat and took a step towards him. “This is actually part of my case. Like I said before, you have some information I believe will be useful.” He tried for a weak smile. “I’d rather talk with you at the precinct, and go over everything in detail there.”

Sherlock didn’t move, or speak, watching the detective instead.

Molly spoke up instead, firm and protective as always- no matter how upset she was with him. “There will be no handcuffs or any charges,” she reiterated, hopefully only for clarification purposes. “Just questions, and only what he wants to answer.”

The detective looked directly at her and nodded his agreement. “Yes, exactly.”

Her posture relaxed, focusing now on Sherlock. “I don’t want to have to call your lawyer. I’m not even sure he’ll answer my calls anymore. So you’re on your own Sherlock. In a precinct full of officers.” She frowned, mouth twisting into a line. “Not the best idea I’ve had.”

“You worry too much, Molly,” Sherlock told her, trying his best to be reassuring. “I’ll be home in a hour or two. Unharmed, I’m sure. But if I’m any later, call Mrs. Hudson. She’ll want to know. And I will even text you when I return home, if I’m able.”

“Sure, thanks,” Molly agreed with a jerky nod.

The detective was waiting patiently for him near the door, but Sherlock could tell from his expression that he’d overheard almost everything.

“Well,” Sherlock said, stirring into movement to close the distance between him and the other man. “Lead on detective.”

John Watson smiled at him as Sherlock came up next to him, and then gestured at the doors. “My car is just outside.”


	5. Chapter 5

The precinct wasn’t very far from the bookstore where Holmes had been hosting his surprisingly quiet book event, but it still felt like a very long ride back to the precinct. Holmes had gotten into the car willingly enough, sliding into the passenger seat with just a second’s too long glance at the drivers seat and then into the back seat. But as soon as they were both seated and John started the engine, the small space of the car quickly filled with stuffy, awkward silence.

John wasn’t used to riding with a partner, or with anyone else in the passenger seat. The only people he’d ever had join him in the car were the criminals or perpetrators he’d arrested and needed to take to the precinct for questioning or booking. There was never another person in the front of the car with him; everyone arrived to scenes in their own vehicles and had their own preferred modes of transport. Some more reliable than others.

While sitting at a red light John tapped his fingers on the top of the leather steering wheel, trying to stop himself from looking over at Holmes. He didn’t mind the car being silent; he actually preferred it that way. But this silence was uncomfortable; mainly because he didn’t think the only things he could come up with to say would be well received by Holmes. A few streets earlier he’d even been tempted to turn on the radio, something he rarely did because there was never a channel he wanted to listen to. But he’d quickly decided not to.

Luckily John was saved from embarrassing himself with whatever came out of his mouth when the light changed. He tightened his hands around the wheel and refocused his attention on driving his car in the hazardous city traffic.

In the passenger seat Holmes shifted from his lazy but still well postured sprawl and exhaled sharply through his teeth. "Was being a police officer in this city so intriguing it was a simple choice for you to leave London and move here?"

John jerked the wheel sharply to the right at the sudden sound of Holmes' voice and at the intrusive question. He managed to correct the car without drifting from the lane he was currently in. "Excuse me?" John spluttered, readjusting his grip on the wheel.

Holmes gave a loud, annoyed sigh. He propped his chin in his hand and continued staring out the window. "You came here relatively recently, that much is obvious. It has only been a few years but you've already mostly settled in. You became a detective with the city police department, and a well-respected detective I suspect at that. However that wasn't the original reason you came here. A new start perhaps?" Holmes hummed quietly. "You still miss London, however. No, don't bother trying to deny it. You were surprised, and also relieved to a point when you realized I was a fellow countryman. That you hadn't expected. By now you are used to living here, but you still look the incorrect way first for traffic, prefer tea as your beverage of choice, and carry the trace of a Londoners mannerisms."

Without his really paying attention the light in front of them turned red, so John had to step hard on the break to make sure they stopped in time. Once the car was stationary John turned partially in his seat to gape at Holmes, "How did you know all that?"

Holmes sniffed somewhat condescendingly at him, and slipped a hand into his coat pocket. "Obvious, I merely observed and listened. It's disheartening how many people are not even capable of that."

"I've noticed people can be very good at minding their own business," John replied in agreement, coaxing the car into moving again as the light turned. "But that doesn't answer how you knew about me. Have you been reading up on me?"

John glanced over at Holmes for a second in time to see his shoulders shift underneath the fabric of his coat. "Of course not. I only met you in the bookstore minutes ago; I had no time to look you up. My observations are not some kind of cheap party trick, I only tell the truth- even if most people would rather not hear it. I am only sharing what I have concluded about you so far."

John took the time to consider that for a few minutes, focusing on driving as he did. They sat in silence for that time, a silence that was slightly more comfortable now. Then John had to laugh and admit, "You're nothing like I imagined."

He could feel Holmes' eyes on him as he just managed to make it through a light that had turned yellow. "I'm nearly afraid to ask how you did imagine me," Holmes said finally.

John licked his lips, going over his response carefully first. "I don't really know," he admitted. "There's not much information out there about you. Not that I've been looking." John quickly checked himself, but Holmes' expression hadn't changed at all. "Your Wikipedia page has nearly the same information as the biographies on your book jackets, which is barely anything. The fan sites, or site since I only found one, are mostly just speculation. And as far as I could tell, you've only done two press interviews since your first novel was published."

One side of Holmes' mouth twisted into what could be called a smirk. "That is exactly how I prefer it. Most so-called celebrities make the common mistake of allowing the press too much access and information about their lives. I make certain to maintain a high level of security."

"Well you've definitely done an excellent job of that," John commented, more than slightly impressed by how successful Holmes actually was in this day and age when almost everything was online and not private or secure at all. "But wouldn't, wouldn't your novels sell better if you were even a bit more well-known? You aren't exactly a household name; not like Patterson or Grisham."

"Mainstream nonsense written for readers with no ounce of original thought or creativity in their bodies," Holmes dismissed irritably, waving his hand at such an idea. "Their plots are unoriginal, and they only write for the money from sales rather than for the high of creating and solving a crime and the act of writing." He cleared his throat. "I write for myself, and choose to share the results with the general public. Mostly due to Molly's persuasion, admittedly. Any press or publicity I may gain is completely unimportant to me. And most people, after meeting me, prefer not to remain in my presence for an extended period of time."

"Mm," John hummed, slowing down as they arrived on the same block as the precinct. "Well you do seem to have a good thing going."

Holmes made a humming, noncommittal noise as he sank lower down in his seat. He remained stonily quiet even as John turned the car into the lot at the back of the precinct building, parked in his usual space, and turned off the engine.

John climbed out of the car, dropping the keys into the pocket of his jacket. A gust of wind suddenly flared up, threatening to push him sideways into the car. John pulled his jacket closed against the wind then glanced over the roof of the car to notice Holmes fastening his own coat and straightening the high collar. Even infamous authors aren’t immune to the weather, John thought amused.

He walked quickly past the few other parked squad cars, must be nearing the end of the day shift if so many people were already back at the precinct, and up the three cement steps to the side door of the building. John caught Holmes studying the side of the building, but he walked through the door John held open for him willingly enough.

John followed Holmes inside and onto the street level landing of the metal stairs. The ancient outside door had a habit of sticking and not shutting all the way, so John pulled it closed with a hard tug on the handle. It complied with a loud metal squeal.

“You should have someone work on that door,” Holmes told him pleasantly as they walked up the flights of stairs to the appropriate floor of the precinct. “However used to the noise you may have become.”

He really was observant, John thought. He walked nearly sideways up the stairs, a foot on each step with his back to the wall, to keep Holmes in sight. Out loud, John replied, “Greg likes to keep it that way, says its so no one can sneak in or out under his watch.”

Holmes may have looked amused, John hadn’t quite managed to interpret all of his expressions yet. “A somewhat simple preventative measure.”

“You could say that,” John admitted. He made a show of glancing around then leaned in closer as they both reached the landing at the same time. “If you ask me, Greg uses it for himself when he needs to sneak off.”

The suddenly surprised look on Holmes’ face made John realize with a start just how close they were standing, bare inches apart. The last thing he wanted was to make Holmes uncomfortable, so John cleared his throat and took a step backward.

“This way,” he instructed with a wave towards the open floor where all the desks were arranged together.

They walked into the room together, their steps matching closely in length despite their different heights and strides. It felt comfortable, like walking with a partner.

John quickly dismissed that thought before he could think about it too hard or in detail. The bullpen of desks was about half full, with only a few desks occupied or small groups of people standing around them. One or two phones were ringing as well, but no one appeared in a hurry to answer them.

At their own grouping of desks Sally was sitting perched on top of hers with her feet dangling off one side. Clara had turned her chair around to face Sally, her legs crossed underneath her, and her hands gripping the arms for balance as she leaned far forward. She was talking animatedly, one hand waving around in the air as Sally listened, biting her lip in the way she did when she was trying not to say something and interrupt.

Sally caught sight of them first, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw him and then switched to almost gaping when she saw who was just behind him. Sally leaned forward to make silencing gestures at Clara before saying loudly when John and Holmes were in earshot, “Welcome back boss.” She slid off her desk to stand just in front of it. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”

Clara spun her chair around as John and Holmes came around the side of the desks. She managed not to dislodge herself from her chair, likely purely from practice. Clara greeted him with a wide smile. “Hello boss!”

“Hello,” he returned warmly, stretching out a hand to stop Clara from spinning around another time. “You two look like you’re enjoying yourselves.”

Sally crossed her arms, standing taller on the heels she always wore. “Just a little women talk, boss.”

John was almost sure he was making a face at the idea.

He was saved from finding a response when Clara jerked her chair out of his grip. She rolled her eyes in Holmes’ direction in what was probably supposed to be an unnoticeable, meaningful way. “Who’s this you’ve brought behind restricted lines with you? Do we need to keep an eye on him on your behalf?”

If he was interpreting her comment right, and it wasn’t for certain since she was the queen of double speak, she really could be worse than his sister Harry sometimes.

“No, I can keep my eye on him just fine, thanks. And he’s someone I think can help us with this case.” John looked at Holmes, who had surprisingly remained silent this entire time. “He could have useful information and advice about some of the details.”

Clara laughed quietly, turning it into a cough. “I bet.”

John treated her to his most disapproving glare.

“The rooms in back should be empty for awhile if you want to talk in there,” Sally informed him, pushing her chair in under her desk. “Johnson made a fresh pot maybe a half hour ago, so there should be some left.”

“I wouldn’t drink it, though” Clara added, contributing her two cents.

“Thanks, but we’ll be fine,” John said firmly, cutting off any further attempts from them at being helpful.

Beside him Holmes made a soft choking noise. “Coffee.”

John half-turned to him. “You try surviving on tea for days on end with barely any sleep while you try to solve a homicide. Especially when nothing makes any sense.”

Holmes frowned disappointedly at him. “Don’t be dramatic, Detective. You’ve only had this case for how long, a day?”

John blinked a few times then quickly countered, “I’m not being dramatic. That has actually happened before. Part of bringing you in is to make sure it doesn’t happen with this one.”

“Then, perhaps,” Holmes suggested, unfastening his coat, “we should get started.”

That was a very excellent idea. Every hour counted with these cases, especially if it turned out their victim and their murderer was still out there. 

“Yes, right.” John looked to Sally and Clara. “Is Greg around?”

Sally jerked her chin in the direction of the rooms and offices on the right side of the room. From his current position John could only see the door to Greg’s office but not the windows. “He’s in there. We’re pretty sure he’s been on with the Mayor for a long time, but the blinds are down and I refuse to press my ear to the glass.”

“It doesn’t work most of the time anyway,” Clara broke in, shaking her head.

“Right. Well when he’s finished- and if he’s not in too awful of a mood- tell him we’re here, will you?” John requested, knowing they would both follow through. Greg didn’t get on well with the Mayor, or being forced into things for political reasons, but John always appreciated Greg’s opinion on things. There was a reason he was the chief.

“Sure, boss. As soon as he’s off the phone,” Clara promised, glancing again towards Greg’s closed door.

“Thanks, Clara,” John told her as he started walking between the desks and to the aisle. He stopped at the end of the row of desks when he realized Holmes hadn’t followed him.

“Come on, Mr. Holmes,” John called, waving at him. “We can see if there’s any decent tea for you before we start in on the questions.”

Holmes nodded to both Sally and Clara in turn. Then he followed quickly after John, replying scathingly, “I highly doubt there is anything in this place which even remotely resembles tea. And, despite your time here, I hope you still know better than to offer mildly warm flavored water.”

John laughed as Holmes caught up to him, and then they resumed walking towards the break room. “Listen here-”

~  
Sally waited until both John and his visitor were out of hearing before she sank down into her chair with a soft ‘ploof.’ “Was that-?” She started to say in a soft voice.

“The mystery writer Sherlock Holmes?” Clara finished the rest of her question in an excited whisper. “Pretty sure it was.”

Sally ‘hmmed,’ thinking for a moment. Then she leaned back in her chair and asked, just for clarification, “The one the boss-”

“Raves about all the time? Goes on and on about how realistic and brilliant his plots are?” Clara completed her thought yet again, a gleam coming into her eyes now. “That’s the one.”

They sat in silence for a while thinking and waiting for the other to speak or to spring into action.

Finally, Clara, who had been gently swinging her chair from side to side, asked tentatively, “Do you want to-”

Sally quickly leapt to her feet with a devilish grin on her face. “I’ll get the popcorn, you get John’s book.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Clara confirmed, grinning in turn with a fully mischievous gleam now.


	6. Chapter 6

John showed Holmes into one of the interview rooms towards the back of the precinct. It wasn’t the kind of space Holmes was probably used to, but it would work well enough for the questions John had in mind. Hopefully Holmes knew something that would be helpful to them or had advice. But if not, at least Holmes could give them insight into how he had created the crime scene as he wrote it in his novel. Especially since so far everything was curiously almost identical to the scenes in Holmes’ novel.

John told Holmes to make himself comfortable, which the other man laughed at, then went off to get tea and coffee for them both… as well as any photographs from the crime scene that were already processed for him to show Holmes. John did leave the door to the room open, since he didn’t want Holmes to be left alone or supposedly forgotten. And he did worry just a little if the news would spread about the celebrity hidden in the back.

When John came into the room again minutes later with a manila folder tucked under his arm and a coffee mug in one hand and a cup of tea in his other, Holmes appeared completely at home where he sat relaxed in one of the metal chairs. His hands were clasped together in his lap, the index fingers pressed together.

“Sorry for the wait,” John said, stepping inside the room. He hooked one foot around the edge of the door and pushed it closed as far as he could without losing his balance.

Holmes sniffed loudly, moving to sit more upright in the chair.

John walked towards the table, keeping his eyes on Holmes. “Tea,” he announced, setting the cup in front of the other man. “I didn’t know how you liked it, so I just guessed.”

“It’s rarely effective to guess,” Holmes commented disapprovingly, reaching a hand out to take hold of the mug.

“Yes, well, it’s been a few years since I’ve made it for anyone else,” John informed the man, not wanting to think about the implications. He walked around the table and sat in the chair opposite Holmes, perching on the edge of his seat.

Holmes shifted his grip on the cup and brought it to his lips, taking a long sip. Then he quickly set it back down on the table. “You’ve obviously forgotten everything you once knew about the process.”

John tried very hard not to roll his eyes, and took a long sip of his own coffee instead.

Holmes, for his part, looked annoyed by John’s lack of response.

Only after he finished nearly half of his coffee, now feeling slightly better with caffeine in his system again, John set his own mug on the table. Then he reached for the folder lying in front of him, getting down to business.

“So, Mr. Holmes-” John began, opening the folder.

“Sherlock.”

John started at the abrupt interruption. “Sorry?”

“My name is Sherlock; my brother is called ‘Mr. Holmes.’” Holmes- Sherlock told him, sitting primly in the chair now and looking completely in his element. “So, Sherlock, please.”

“Right. Well, Sherlock then,” John corrected himself, tilting his head slightly to the side. When questioning someone it always helped to build even the slightest trust between yourself and the other person. And being informal, using given names, was always a successful ploy. “You can call me John, if you’d like.”

Holmes- John didn’t know if he could really call the man by his first name, even such an uncommon one- looked like he was close to laughing at him. “‘Detective John’? ‘Detective Watson’? Please, detective, begin your questions.”

Of course, Holmes was a crime writer. He knew how these interviews went, from both sides probably.

John tapped a finger on the top piece of paper in a very short stack inside the folder, meaning to draw Holmes’ attention to it. The top papers contained the very little information he’d found on Holmes, even in every database they had access to. It had been extremely difficult to discover what Holmes had done since he’d arrived in the city several years ago, if the records could be relied on.

“I couldn’t find much information on you… Sherlock. Actually, even with the databases we have access to as police I doubt I learned much more than I could on the Internet. Except for several odd mentions of trespassing on crime scenes, which seem to have been mysteriously edited out.”

Holmes’ expression tightened briefly, his eyes narrowing slightly. There was a story there it looked like.

John clasped his hands together on top of the papers and leaned forward slightly. “See, these databases aren’t just for us to gather information to invade people’s privacy or to keep track of their crimes like many people seem to think. There’s a reason for it. It’s so we can help solve crimes, put away criminals, and give families or loved ones the satisfaction of getting answers.”

Holmes’ gaze, which had been focused mainly on the folder, suddenly snapped up to focus on John. And god, wasn’t it extremely disconcerting and uncomfortable to have that pale laser-like gaze focused entirely on him. John suffered it for what felt like minutes- he’d stared down dangerous criminals after all- fighting the urge to look away and shift restlessly in his chair.

That was when Holmes finally blinked, and sat back completely loose-limbed again. 

“Ah,” he sighed quietly, clasping his hands back together. “That’s what happened to you, isn’t it? It was personal for you, someone you were close with, but the matter was never solved to your satisfaction. You personally never experienced the relief you mentioned of finding all the answers. That is the reason you became a detective- to give other families and victims what you didn’t have.” The man had the nerve to smile at him. “How honorable and selfless of you, detective.”

John’s fingernails were biting into the skin of his palms on both his hands, and his teeth hurt from how tightly he was clenching his jaw. “Don’t,” John bit out between his teeth. “Just, don’t.”

Somewhere beyond his fury at having his most painful secrets spilled so easily… and how had Holmes known?... John saw the pinched, almost hurt look Holmes let slip before it smoothed out back into arrogance. “My, detective, I seem to have hit a nerve.” He bowed his head just a fraction of an inch. “My apologies. You’ve brought me here to ask questions, we seem to have drifted off-topic.”

John slowly unclenched his fingers one by one, despite the ache. “Important thing to have slipped your mind. And it’s really unnerving when you do that, you must know.” 

Holmes gave no response or even any hint of a reaction.

John sat back slightly, letting his hostility fade in place of more important things. “Didn’t your publicist tell you to fully cooperate while you’re here?” John reminded the other man, flicking an admittedly icy smile.

Holmes laughed, treating John to a faux innocent smile as he unclasped his hands. “Oh detective, this is my cooperating.” He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table. “You wouldn’t want to witness my being uncooperative.”

John hummed in answer, silently agreeing with the man. Holmes knew how to use sharp barbs and facts even better than the criminals John usually dealt with used aggression and adamant denials. “Well, at least you’re a change from the criminals I normally deal with. They’re never very good conversationalists.”

“I would imagine so,” Holmes said agreeably. “Criminals are only focused on getting away with their crimes or demonstrating their innocence. Talking with a detective in such a setting as this is exactly the opposite of what they need to succeed. It’s entirely unsurprising they refuse to cooperate with you.”

John leaned forward again, shuffling to the edge of the seat. “Is that part of your writing process? How you get into the mind of a criminal, I mean.”

Holmes actually looked surprised at the question, as if no one had been interested before. All though with how he tended to avoid the press and any interviews, it could be possible. “I find it interesting to uncover new, different motives criminals may have as a reason for their acts or crimes. Since in reality the majority of criminals greatly lack any imagination, I prefer to write the criminals in my novels as being more creative with their motives and acts.”

“Well, someone out there is trying to recreate your creative criminals,” John told the man seriously, thumbing through the other contents of the folder he’d brought with him. “Here,” he said, pulling out one of the crime scene photos that had already been developed. “We found this scene just a few hours ago. It took me a while but I finally placed it.”

John tapped the edge of the photo he’d placed in front of Holmes. Then he pulled out a second photo with a closer view of the scene. “Here’s some of what we found there. Look familiar at all?”

He set photos of the fireplace and paper ashes beside the first one, then added another photo of the calendar with the appointment and initials clearly in focus, and beside that placed a photo of the open safe. Then finally, the most obvious one… a photo of the note with the strange symbols they’d found.

For the first set of photos Holmes had remained quiet while appearing cool and detached yet slightly interested in the contents of the photos. He leaned forward to look more closely at them, but gave away no sign of recognition. Then finally when John set down the last photo with the note, his aloof facade shattered.

“Well that is interesting,” Holmes hummed absently, eyes focused solely on the photo. He reached out and pulled it closer to him. “Not something commonly found at crime scenes, I imagine.” His gaze flicked up to fix on John for a brief second. “Is there anything else you… recognized… at the scene?”

Reminding himself Holmes wasn’t actually a fellow officer and so had no right to further classified information about the crime scene or the crime itself, John shifted and asked smartly, “Isn’t this enough? Burnt papers, a strange recurring appointment, a broken safe, and a cryptic note… Just like in your novels.”

A slow sharp-edged smile spread across Holmes’ face, making him suddenly appear dangerous. “I hope you aren’t about to accuse me of murder, detective. Because that would be against our current arrangement, and I’m afraid I would have to ring my publisher who would then ring my lawyer.”

“You must admit, it does look awfully suspicious,” John responded in a non-answer as he redirected the conversation. “You’re the one who wrote the scenes in the first place after all, I’m sure you would know how to recreate such a crime exactly.” John leaned closer over the table, lowering his voice amiably. “You’ve written a few novels now, all with creative crime scenes and intelligent criminals. It’s entirely possible that wasn’t enough anymore, and you decided to act out one of your own novels. That you were bored of just writing and moved past that to recreate your fantasy crime.”

Holmes’ smile was absolutely shark-like now, reminding John of some of the more dangerous criminals he had faced across this table. A specific Italian mob boss came especially to mind. “Is that what you think of me, detective? That I would become so bored with writing as an outlet for inventing crimes, I would begin committing such crimes myself?” He shook his head, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms. “Really, detective. I would never lower myself so.”

“Then you’re saying you didn’t do it,” John confirmed, speaking in a normal voice. “I don’t suppose you have any evidence to prove that. Just so I can be sure.”

“If this is your asking for an alibi, detective, I refuse to say anymore,” Holmes told him coldly, treating him to an icy glare. “You must be very desperate for a suspect if I’m the one you’re accusing. However I’ve already told you I didn’t murder anyone. Or recreate the crime. Now, if you have no more questions, or accusations, I will take my leave.”

Holmes actually stood up from his chair then, pushing it back as he got to his feet. John quickly stood as well, hoping to stop him.

“Wait, Mr. Holmes. Please,” John requested, reaching out a hand. “It just seems incredibly suspicious, that’s all. If you didn’t do this, is there someone else you can think of? Someone who would want to incriminate you, or an enemy of yours who’d wish you harm?”

Holmes stopped just by the corner of the table then turned back around to laugh unapologetically at John. “How long do we have, detective?” He asked, smiling tightly. “I could make a list for you based on your time limit. Would you like me to start back in my childhood or would you rather I start from more recently?”

John blinked, ignoring the slightest twinge of sympathy at the idea Holmes could have so many enemies. “The top five or so would be fine,” he answered as pleasantly as possible.

“Very well,” Holmes acquiesced, stepping back up to the table. “I don’t suppose you have a pen and paper.”

John slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and took out the notepad and pen he stored there just in case. He wanted to take advantage of Holmes’ hopefully more than momentary helpfulness.

John reached across the table to set the pad and paper in front of Holmes. After Holmes took them, flipped the cover open, and began to write, John asked off-handed, “Does the name John MacFarland sound familiar at all?”

Holmes didn’t even glance in his direction as he replied, “I can’t say it does, detective. Why, is it important?”

“No. Not at all,” John quickly answered. He doubted the name of the victim had been released to the public yet and they hadn’t found next of kin or family, so he shouldn’t really be sharing the supposed victims name at all.

As Holmes continued writing, on his third name now, John picked up the crime photos and pushed them even closer towards Holmes. “It does seem someone is particularly determined to make this crime scene appear identical to the one in your novel. Any idea why that could be? Or why they would pick your crime scene? Out of all the detective novels in the world?”

Holmes briefly glanced up to give him the same icy smile. “As you inferred, detective, it appears someone has staged a crime scene similar to one I wrote. I’ve no idea why, seeing as this particular murder would not have been at all easy to recreate, or the criminal’s best course of action. Such a method of murder is greatly more complicated and detailed than killing someone and hiding the body. Therefore it is very unusual. ”

“It seemed unusual to me too, which may be why it took me a while to recognize what I was seeing,” John confessed with a faint shrug. “And you’ve no idea at all who could possibly have done this? Anyone not on that list?” He asked, indicating the paper Holmes was just finishing writing on. “Maybe an obsessive fan you’ve encountered? Or someone you’ve received hate mail from who would want to frame you?”

Holmes set the pen down and pushed the piece of paper back across the table to John. “As you’ve previously noted, detective, I do not have press interviews or hold fan events.” He clasped his hands together and tapped his fingers. “According to Molly, I am no longer allowed to interact or engage in any conversation with press or fans either on my own or accompanied. “ Holmes’ mouth twisted in a ghost of a smile. “I am also not allowed to respond to any of my fan mail either electronically or by hand. Molly now keeps it at her office and refuses to let me see any of it. She knows better now, you see.”

John was very tempted for his next question to be about what had happened with the fan mail, but restrained himself. Instead he asked, “So if I were to ask to look at the fan mail you’ve received, I should ask your publicist Molly?”

Holmes nodded his agreement. “Yes, exactly.”

John picked up the piece of paper Holmes had written his list on and slipped it in his notepad. On another page he wrote himself a note to talk to this Molly later. 

Since Holmes was still in a helpful mood, John quickly continued. He pointed at the photo of the note still in front of Holmes with a single finger. “I don’t suppose you see anything we haven’t? Anything else similar to your version of the crime scene?”

Holmes picked up the photo to look more closely at it. From behind it he replied smoothly, “You could answer that just as well I suspect, detective. Since you are obviously familiar with my work.”

John laughed weakly, caught off-guard. “Unlike some of my colleagues I do enjoy reading crime novels in my free time, it’s true. But I don’t have nearly the imagination or creativity to write one.”

“There are many extremely poor excuses for authors these days,” Holmes remarked, sounding irritated by this. 

He set the photo back on the table then arched a single eyebrow at John. “All the notes and the code in my novel I created on my own. They were of my own invention after Molly reminded me,” his voice changed to a weak impersonation of the woman John had met briefly at the bookstore, “‘not everyone has a mind like yours, Sherlock. If it’s so important to the plot and the motive then you need to think of a way for it to stay in but be something your typical reader can follow!’”

Holmes scoffed then added derisively in his own voice, “Originally the symbols used in the code were even more complicated, creating it took several days of thought. Yet Molly made me recreate it entirely. The note was meant to be a way for the characters to pass secret messages amongst themselves; a simple code that could be written quickly and easily yet still is effective at keeping the message secret. That,” Holmes pointed a long finger at the photo on the table, “is similar to neither version of the code I created.”

John let his mouth open slightly in his surprise. He reached over and picked up the contested photo himself. “Are you sure?” John inquired, staring closely at it.

Holmes snorted, visibly rolling his eyes.

“Right, course you are,” John finally gave in, feeling just the slightest bit of disappointment. “How can you tell exactly, what’s the difference?”

“You would have to decode this, since you obviously haven’t done so already, in order to fully compare the decoded message with its coded symbols.” Holmes advised him, appearing to warm to his topic. “The characters aren’t as precise, many of them are sloppy or had to be written over multiple times by a hesitant hand. My original version of the code had symbols with flags to substitute for punctuation; this code seems to not have any at all. And, although many letters in our alphabet repeat often in a single sentence, vowels especially, not many of these symbols appear to repeat.”

John couldn’t help staring at Holmes in response to the flood of words that had just fallen from his lips. “That… was brilliant.” He finally managed to say.

Again Holmes looked surprised at John’s positive response. “Really?” He asked, then quickly cleared his throat looking away.

“Yes, absolutely. I never would have noticed any of that.” John replied, the words coming out of his mouth before he could censor them at all. “I can’t believe... “ John forced himself to stop talking and actually think for a moment.

When words came to him again, John quickly tried to backtrack. “Even with all of those differences, someone still did their best to mimic your code on a note they left behind at a crime scene,” John slid the photo back inside the manila folder of photographs. “I’ll have one of our experts look at it. Hopefully they’ll be able to decode the message.”

Holmes hummed quietly, not seeming to be paying John his full attention. “I would like a copy of my own, if you would.”

John’s hand froze where he’d reached over to retrieve the other photographs he’d shown Holmes. “I would mind actually. This is police evidence.”

Holmes looked annoyed at this inconvenience. “It’s a photograph, detective,” he pointed out. “I’m hardly asking for the note itself.”

No, because that would be going too far. “All the same, it’s still a photograph of confidential evidence and needs to remain in police custody.” John slid the rest of the photographs inside the folder and tapped the edge on the table. “Thanks for coming in, you’ve been a great help.”

John took a step away from the table then paused and turned back, saying honestly, “It was a pleasure to meet you, really. You’re, much more than I expected.”

John caught the brief flicker of surprise and relief pass across Holmes’ expression. But then he turned away too soon to see the curiosity and awe settle on Holmes’ face. 

John walked to the door, hand stretched out towards the doorknob, his mind running on ahead to the next steps in their investigation. Namely decoding the note and finding out exactly what had happened to their victim.

“Do you remember what happened, in the novel?” Asked Holmes’ confident, soft voice from behind John.

John turned around to see Holmes still standing next to the table, calm as could be. “Sorry?”

Holmes huffed and repeated the question; the words more clipped this time. “Do you, remember, in the novel, what happened?”

“Uhm,” John held the folder to his chest, casting his mind back to the novel he’d read months ago. “The note was a message, a warning, to one of the victims. The murderer took papers from the victim’s desk, after killing him violently. But he escaped, framing someone else for the murder.” John thought hard, trying to remember the rest. “And… they found evidence of another victim, but not the body. It turned out the supposed victim was still alive and actually the murderer, and they’d been hiding… in the building… waiting.”

Holmes’ mouth quirked, eyes crinkling as John trailed off at the same moment his mind finally caught on to the connection. “You think this was really just a set up? That the man isn’t actually dead, he’s just hiding somewhere biding his time?”

John shifted his weight, fingers curling around the edge of the folder. Finally he asked, not able to contain himself especially since this would mean getting Holmes’ opinion on it, “But we found bones and ashes at the scene. Why would they have been there if they aren’t from our victim? And why would the murder go to all that trouble otherwise?”

“I don’t know, detective. Have you tested the ashes to make sure they’re human? And also that the DNA matches your- supposed- victim?” Holmes advised John, nearly sounding condescending again. He adjusted the coat he still wore even inside the building, refastening the buttons. “Until then, I’m wouldn’t be so certain if I were you.”

“Well, of course we’ll be testing it,” John replied sharply, caught off guard by Holmes’ comment. “But until then we’ll be assuming it’s our supposed victim.”

“Well,” Holmes drawled as he started walking towards the door. “As a detective you should know better than to assume anything, especially at the very beginning of a case.”

Before John could come up with a reply that wasn’t insulting, Holmes put a hand on the doorknob and turned it. “Good luck with your investigation and case, detective.” He opened the door and stepped through. “You know where to find me if you need me.”

Then, with a flash of dark coat and a wink, Holmes disappeared from the doorway. The door left open after him.

John stared past the empty doorway, noticing Clara come up next to Holmes with something tucked under her arm and engaged Holmes in conversation. Holmes replied shortly, stonily, and then appeared to grudgingly follow her past the rows of desks and out of the squad room. 

And so was the end of his probably sole encounter with Holmes, and it had been so… unexpected. John had heard rumors about Holmes, but the man was so much… more in person. He had such a presence John hadn’t really expected. Holmes was annoying, arrogant, brilliant, funny, and… human.


	7. Chapter 7

A sharp knock shook John out of his thoughts. He refocused his attention on the doorframe as Sally stuck her head around. “Boss?”

“Yeah.”

Her mouth twisted up in a smirk, and there was a look in her eyes that told him she’d mock him for this later. “John.” Sally called again, firmer this time.

“Yeah, yeah!” John replied, alert now. He shook his head, forcing his mind back on the case. 

John ran a hand over his face, taking a deep breath. “Right, what have you found out?” He asked, moving into action and towards her.

Sally smiled at him as he arrived beside her, and then together they began walking back towards their desks. Sally took the opportunity to start catching him up with what had happened in his absence.

“The ashes and supposed remains are down to Sarah, along with everything else we found at the scene. We’re trying to find next of kin or any family, but no luck so far. Especially since the phone or an address book hasn’t showed up yet. And that weird note with the stick figures code is with the techs.”

They turned the corner past the break room and entered the bullpen of desks. There were even fewer officers present now. As he listened to Sally, John glanced over at the clock up on the wall then nearly balked at the late hour. Well, that was a good reason why. 

“We’re currently taking bets on if the techs will be able to decode it. So far the odds aren’t very good. Oh, and Clara’s also trying to figure out who the initials that recurring appointment is for in the supposed vic’s calendar. I’m secretly betting she’ll figure it out before the tech guys figure out anything.” Sally had barely finished talking when they arrived at their gathering of desks. 

Clara, who had just been coming towards them in the opposite direction, stopped next to the chair at her desk and spun it around. As she dropped down into her chair then reached behind her to tap the spacebar on her keyboard to wake up her computer, Clara commented, “You say the sweetest things, Sally,” then winked at her colleague.

Sally moved to the side a little then pushed herself up to sit at the very end of Clara’s desk in the only empty space available. “Only because I have such faith in you, Clara,” she returned swiftly.

“Alright you two, knock it off,” John broke in. He set the folder he was still carrying down on the desk and propped himself against the side instead of collapsing into a chair like he wanted. “Have you had any luck so far Clara?”

She took a handful of popcorn from a bag that had appeared on her desk in the time since he’d last been out here. “Not so far boss,” Clara admitted, sounding irritated by this, before popping several kernels into her mouth. She took her time chewing before humming and added, “But just give me time.”

“I know you’ll figure it out, Clara. I have all the confidence in you,” John reassured her honestly. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk. “And those ashes and bones have been sent along to Sarah?”

“Right away, and marked urgent,” Sally confirmed with a nod. She leaned back a little, propping herself up with her hands. “Sarah said she’d get the results as fast as humanly possible. She also mentioned hassling or pestering her will not help her be any faster.”

“Fast for Sarah is faster than anyone else I’ve ever worked with. She’ll have them as soon as she can.” John glanced up at the clock again. “But I doubt that’ll be before morning. And everything else can wait until then too.” 

John stood up, resting his full weight on his feet. “Just one last thing, did any of the officers talk to the apartment manager like I asked? Did we find anything about hidden passageways or rooms?”

Clara and Sally shared a look he was nearly certain meant they were questioning his sanity. 

It was Clara who spoke first. “One called in and said he talked to the building owner. Apparently their conversation didn’t last long, but the owner didn’t claim any knowledge about secret tunnels or areas behind the walls.” She gave him a slightly pitying look. “Actually, the officer said the man seemed affronted by the idea of such a thing in his own building, let alone not knowing about it if it did exist.”

Well, there went that lead. And one major area of similarity between Holmes’ novel and their case. John considered he ought to feel more relieved at the prospect of fewer complications and less disappointed there weren’t such complications involved.

“That’s a good thing, I suppose,” John told his colleagues out loud. “One less complication for us to check and run down.”

“Or go wandering around an old, creepy building searching for any hidden entrances or passageways ourselves,” Sally added under her breath.

“What about the next best thing?” John suggested, feeling suddenly inspired. “In the morning we can contact the city planning office and see if they happen to have any blueprints on file for the building? That would replace any necessary legwork, and help us be absolutely sure we don’t have to worry about such things.”

Sally and Clara shared a glance again before Sally answered, “I think we’ll both vote for you to have that honor, boss.”

He deserved that. “All right, I can take that on,” John agreed easily enough. The two of them usually ended up doing more legwork than him anyways. He could take on one burden.

“What about Greg, is he still here?” John asked glancing towards the chief’s office. The door was still closed, but since the shades were down he couldn’t tell if the light was on.

“He decided to take an early night,” Clara answered slowly, taking her time with the answer. “About the same time he got off the phone with the mayor and then someone else after.”

“He did say he’d talk with you right away in the morning when he came in,” Sally added sounding reassuring. “But he thought it could wait.”

“All right, true enough.” With that John smiled at the two of them and waved his hands. “Go on, go home. Get a good nights sleep and we’ll start again early tomorrow.”

Sally nearly jumped off the desk at this news. “Thanks boss, you really are the best.”

“I could hear that a little more often,” John teased while Sally walked over to her desk next to Clara’s. She quickly started gathering her things, as if in case John changed his mind.

Clara seemed a little more reluctant. She thoroughly chewed another mouthful of popcorn before wheedling, “Can I stay a little longer, boss? I know I can get this.”

“I’m sure you can,” John said agreeably, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I am absolutely sure you can. But, if you go home and sleep you’ll be much better rested than if you stay here over night. And I won’t be responsible for you collapsing at your desk in the middle of the night.”

Clara ‘hmph’ed and gave him a sideways, narrow eyed look that said she was starting to worry about him. “There is such a thing as caffeine, you know. And there just happens to be an all-night coffee machine. I’ll be fine.”

She had a stubborn streak as wide as Harry. No wonder they’d been well matched. “Clara, we wouldn’t get any further with the case even if we did stay the night. Right now it’s just a waiting game to find our next lead with all the evidence that’s been collected.” He looked over to Sally who now had her purse slung over her shoulder and was just finishing zipping her jacket. “I think Sally has the right idea for now.”

Clara’s mouth pressed together into a thin line, and even her gaze looked disapproving. “Boss…”

“I’m leaving Clara, last chance for a ride. Or… a short detour for something strong?” Sally intervened, hiking her purse higher on her shoulder. She looked expectantly, patiently, at Clara with her fingers curled around the strap. “Want to come?”

Clara thought about it for a long second. She looked between Sally and John a few times as her heels drummed on the legs of the chair. 

Then finally Clara nodded and jumped to her feet. “All right. Wait for me downstairs? I’ll be right there.”

Sally gave Clara a suspicious look. But she only hummed, “Mm hmm,” then turned on her heel and walked away around the desks.

Over the sound of her heels clicking on the floor Sally called over her shoulder, “Night boss!” And gave a small, short wave.

“Good night, Sally!” John replied warmly, lifting a hand to wave her off. “Take care!”

Once Sally reached the other end of the room and disappeared around the corner towards the elevators, John turned his attention to his own desk. He ran his fingers over the collar of his jacket and considered going down to see Sarah for a moment before going home.

Clara clearing her throat loudly from closeby distracted him. John looked up to see her still standing in front of her desk. “Yes, Clara?” He asked, curious about what she wanted but also weary from the long day.

One thing John had always liked about Clara was that she knew her own mind. Which was often the main reason behind her stubbornness. So it took less than a minute for her to stop chewing on her lip and ask in a rush, “Have you heard from Harry?”

“Clara…” John breathed on a sigh, and then ran his fingers vigorously through his short hair. 

Before answering John took a long breath through his teeth, steadying himself. “Clara, when we started working together I told you… and you agreed… I wouldn’t be caught between you and Harry.” He raised his head to look her directly in the eye. “Whatever is going on with you two is something you and Harry have to solve yourselves. You’re two very smart women, I’m sure you can work it out if you’d just work together.”

Clara folded her arms defensively across her chest. “It’s not that easy, John. You know it isn’t. And, you also know your sister. You’ve… you’ve been through this with her yourself.”

“I have, yes,” John agreed hesitantly. He really didn’t want to think about this more than he had to. “And I’ve learned when I need to intervene, and when I should walk away. There’s a reason we don’t get on, Clara. Harry and I. And no matter how often I try to make up with her, it never lasts. So,” John finished, taking a step towards her, “you need to decide if this is a battle worth fighting, and what ones you should pick and choose.”

As honest as his advice had been, Clara didn’t appear happy with it. “I love her, or I did love her. I’m not really sure anymore. But, I want to try and make amends. Or I at least want to talk to her.” She sighed tiredly. “But it can’t work, or even happen, until she decides to answer my calls and texts.”

“Ah.” So that was what had been happening. Harry was undoubtedly screening Clara’s attempts at contacting her, ignoring all calls and texts from her number. “I’m not sure my involvement will do any good, Clara. She’ll probably ignore me too.”

Clara finally looked hopeful again. “But you’ll try to get through to her?”

This was just what he needed to add on at the end of today. But Harry was his sister and Clara was dear to him. So John just said, “Yes, all right, I’ll try.”

He didn’t like seeing Clara hurt the way she could be as part of Harry’s life. But then again, from what he had seen Clara had been good for Harry… and had given her a cause. In their good moments the two of them had been quite happy together. But in their bad times… it was often catastrophic when they fought or argued.

Clara closed the distance between them in a single leap, wrapping her arms tightly around him. “Thank you, John. I really appreciate it. Honestly.”

“I know, Clara,” John promised quietly. He slid an arm around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Thank you too.”

Clara laughed and squeezed him one more time. “You don’t need to thank me for anything,” she told him firmly before finally pulling away.

John reluctantly let her go and forced himself to smile at her when she stepped back. “Sally’s still waiting for you downstairs,” he reminded her.

“I know,” she said, not sounding worried. “Just one more thing.” But then Clara didn’t continue, she just closed her mouth and gave him a long, thoughtful look.

John stood there in silence, waiting for her to figure out whatever she was looking for. He was patient enough, he could wait her out.

His only warning for the conversation shift was the mischievous smile Clara treated him to, just before saying, her voice dripping with innocence, “So… that was Sherlock Holmes?”

John blinked; he hadn’t expected that. “Er, yes?”

“Interesting name,” Clara hummed. “Isn’t there an author you like with the same name? I’m sure I’ve heard you mention him three or four hundred times.”

Clara wouldn’t receive any points for subtlety any time soon. But he couldn’t have been that obvious. “Yes, he is the author of some mystery novels I like. But he’s… much different in person.”

Clara smirked at him, angling her head slightly. “Mm hmm.”

Then after a pause she added, “Seemed a bit,” her eyes narrowed. “Sure of himself.”

John shrugged easily in response. He should have expected it really. “Privileged. And self-entitled, that’s what it looks like. He was actually very helpful though. Obviously he knows quite a lot about murders and crime, so he had some advice for us.”

“Didn’t really sound like advice to me,” Clara countered, her nose wrinkling. “What did you think of him though? Will we need his… expertise again? Maybe?”

“Since when do you, or Sally for that matter, like bringing in outside consultants?” John asked, confused by her interest. Most officers didn’t approve of bringing in outside help or experts with cases. They thought everything should remain inside the precinct and between fellow officers. And despite intergovernmental politics, and John or Greg’s convincing, Sally and Clara rarely approved of the idea either.

Then he noticed Clara rolling her eyes, and the look of disbelief she was treating him to. So that wasn’t it then. Why would she ask? Between the three of them they were smart and creative enough to solve even this complicated puzzle on their own. While Holmes had been helpful, they hadn’t absolutely needed or been reliant on him. Or at least John wasn’t going to admit it.

“Honestly, John,” Clara sighed, actually sounding frustrated. “You’re almost as hopeless as all other men.”

“I suppose I should say thank you for that ‘almost,’” John replied amused. “All though I’m not sure I agree with the rest of that statement.”

“That’s not the focus here, John,” Clara scolded, waving her hand at him. “I guess I’ll have to spell it out for you: are you going to meet with him again?” She asked, pointedly enunciating every word while speaking slowly.

“What? Why, would you ask that?” John found himself babbling out of pure surprise. Then he took a moment to get himself under control and cleared his throat. “And is it really any of your business? I know we’re friends, Clara, but that doesn’t mean you can be involved in my other personal business! I just brought him in because I thought he could help with this case, which he did. I doubt I’ll ever see him again, in any situation.”

Clara had been grinning at him all through his rambling protests. Yet all she said was, “I think you’re protesting a little too much, John.” After a pause she added, “You didn’t happen to mention how much of a fan of his you are, did you?”

John tried not to give away his discomfort while he thought back over his and Holmes’ conversations. Once he finished John admitted a little sheepishly, “Not exactly, but I’m pretty sure he caught on that I’ve read his novels a few times. Or at least that I’m familiar with the plots of them.”

Clara snickered at this. “So you didn’t give away much then,” she teased. Then she turned and opened the top drawer of her desk to take something out. “I managed to catch Holmes on his way out,” Clara told him as she pushed the drawer closed with her hip. “And he was very willing to agree.”

She turned back to face him, and John’s eye was drawn to the hardcover book in her hand- an all too familiar one.

“Is that-?” John asked, but wasn’t able to finish as he reached out to take it from her.

Clara seemed to be trying not to all out grin. “Consider it an early birthday gift. And possibly Christmas, we’ll see.”

John was now holding the book in his hands, running fingers over the familiar worn and dog-eared pages. Even the dust jacket had seen better days, but he had always treasured this book. His own copy of Holmes’ first novel from years ago when it first came out in stores.

He slowly opened the cover to study the front page. There, scrawled in a surprisingly messy hand in black pen, was Holmes’ signature. No personalized message, just a hastily scrawled signature that took up about a third of the page. All the same it was still incredibly valuable to him. He couldn’t believe Clara had done such a thing.

“Clara, this is amazing,” John gushed softly, resting a hand lightly on the page. “Thank you, so much.”

“No problem at all,” she said, returning to her desk to retrieve her bag from the bottom drawer. “I just took quick advantage of a probably once in a lifetime opportunity.” Clara held her bag in one hand as she reached down to grab her jacket. “Think of it as thanks for all you’ve done for me,” she reasoned before winking at him. “You deserve it.”

“Not really, but thanks again.” He closed his eyes and held the book tightly to his chest. “I think it’s time for you to go home. You’ve outdone yourself today, so go home and take care of yourself.”

As Clara pulled on her jacket with one hand she gave him a shaky, sincere smile. “You’re so sweet sometimes, John.”

“I-”

Clara succeeded in pulling her jacket on over her sweater, and shifted her bag to under her arm. “Goodnight, John.” She told him then came over and went up on one foot to kiss his cheek. “You take care of yourself too.”

“I will,” he promised, giving her a smile to send her off. “Good night.”

“Night,” Clara repeated fondly, then turned around and started walking away through the desks.

He watched after her until Clara disappeared in the direction of the elevator bay. Then, still holding the book, John went to his own desk and began gathering his things.

It was a late enough hour that it was probably best to go straight home and to bed. But maybe tonight, after such a hectic day, he would stay up a little later and reread this book. It had been a while now and there would never be a better time.

Humming a little to himself, John pulled on his jacket, gathered his mobile and wallet, and walked towards the side door out to the parking lot.


	8. Chapter 8

When Sherlock exited the police station and stepped out onto the sidewalk, he half expected to see a black town car waiting for him at the curb. After the day’s events, especially spending time inside a police precinct, it wouldn’t have been at all unusual.

But a glance up and down the street resulted in no sign of the familiar black car with tinted windows and lack of license plates. So Sherlock walked to the curb and waved down the first cab that conveniently passed by.

It wasn’t a long ride home, but he preferred a cab to the subway. A cab wasn’t always crowded, with too much people and overwhelming noise. Once he got into the cab, other than telling the driver his address Sherlock didn’t say a word. 

After such a long day, which had begun with only a boring hours-long book signing event in the evening, he really ought to feel exhausted. Yet instead he felt exactly the opposite. He felt…. exhilarated. The book signing had been as tedious and uneventful as Sherlock had expected. But then John Watson, detective John Watson, had suddenly appeared and wanted to ask him questions. The detective thought Sherlock had information to offer him.

And John Watson hadn’t been like any other policeman Sherlock had interacted with before. John Watson was interesting, and had an odd sense of humor. He also seemed very invested in his work while also being open to outside, stranger ideas.

Upon meeting most people Sherlock quickly observed and read them then dismissed them in the next minute. He didn’t want to waste his precious time with boring, ordinary people. Being locked in a small room with one of them while they pestered him with idiotic questions would be akin to torture.

Yet when he had been in a small, enclosed room with John Watson, Sherlock hadn’t minded very much at all. True, some of the questions had been tedious. That was to be expected. But John Watson had also proven himself open-minded and capable of alternate methods and lines of thought. This detective wasn’t set in his ways or in solving his cases the same as most policemen. Judging by the case he was currently working John Watson also tended to take on extremely unusual and unique cases.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Sherlock was stirred from his thoughts when the cab pulled to an abrupt stop outside a familiar building. He glanced over out the window and then upward to confirm this was his address. Some cabbies in this city were extremely unreliable, especially given their choice of profession.

But it was his correct address, so Sherlock climbed out of the cab as quickly as possible. He handed the fare through the open passenger window and the cabbie sped off, likely as eager to get home as Sherlock was.

Franklin was on the front door tonight. Sherlock greeted him, then continued walking before he could be forced into a conversation. The main lift in the lobby was as slow to come as usual, so Sherlock was forced to stand waiting for several minutes before there was finally a soft ‘ding.’

He stepped inside and pressed the button for the top floor. The lift was a relatively good size, especially for such an old building, but it still rattled and was agonizingly slow to get to its destination.

Once the lift successfully reached the top floor it ‘ding’ed again and the doors slid open. Sherlock stepped out of the death trap and into the carpeted hallway. His flat was at the very end of the hallway to the left, occupying the entire corner of the building. They got natural light almost the entire day and had a nearly 180 degree view of the city- which Molly had told him more than once he should be thankful for in comparison to some other apartments in the city.

Right now that wasn’t important; all Sherlock wanted was to walk inside his flat and forget all that had happened today. And also possibly give the riddle of Detective John Watson more thought. He likely wouldn’t see the man again, but Sherlock would absolutely remember him.

When he was only meters away from his own door, just passing the apartment next to them, the door opened and Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out noticing him.

“Sherlock!” She greeted enthusiastically, as if she hadn’t just seen him earlier that morning. “You’re getting home late aren’t you?”

There was a tone to her voice Sherlock interpreted as her being under the misconception he was returning home so late because he had been up to inappropriate activities. “I have been out later than this, Mrs. Hudson. It isn’t so unusual.”

“Well, no. I suppose not,” Mrs. Hudson agreed, stepping out into the hall. She kept a hand on the knob to keep her door propped open. “But we expected you earlier.”

Sherlock came to an abrupt halt as the meaning behind what she'd said crashed down on his head. Ellie... He had left her alone almost the entire day, much longer than he’d planned. Of course Mrs. Hudson, whom Sherlock trusted completely, had looked after her... But still.

He turned completely around to face her, not hiding the obvious worry he must be showing. "Is Ellie...?" Sherlock began to ask but found he wasn't able to even finish the question. It was ridiculous; he knew nothing had happened to her... Yet he couldn't help but worry. This was part of what constituted being a parent... Needlessly almost constant worrying.

Mrs. Hudson, the kind and understanding woman she was, must have realized all this because her expression suddenly shifted to patient reassuring. "Oh no, no Sherlock, nothing happened. She's fine."

The grip around his heart finally began to relax at this news. "Thank goodness. Where is she, is she still awake?"

Mrs. Hudson moved further into the hallway, closing the distance between them. "At this hour?" She tsked disapprovingly. "She may be your daughter, but she still shouldn't be staying up so late."

True, it had mostly been an accident getting Ellie into the poor habit of staying awake past her appropriate bedtime. She wasn't a very late sleeper, but it was necessary for her to get as much sleep as possible. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock agreed, as she expected him to. "So where-?"

Mrs. Hudson interrupted him, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm. "Ellie fell asleep watching a movie on the couch over an hour ago. She tried waiting up for you, but I put her to bed and tucked her in for the night."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you are a wonder," Sherlock told her warmly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "I'll go look in on her. Thank you for looking after her for me."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, waving him on. "She may be your daughter, but she's a dear. I don't mind spending time with her at all."

She started walking slowly back towards her door, her hip must be bothering her tonight, but then paused halfway to turn back to him. "Come by and tell me about your adventures today, please, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson requested hopefully. "I can tell you had a much more exciting day then just that book event you weren’t looking forward to."

Sherlock laughed. "I can't hide anything from you it seems Mrs. Hudson." He nodded in promise. "I'll come by tomorrow and tell you everything."

"I'll expect you," Mrs. Hudson told him, walking the rest of the way to her apartment. "And if you're very lucky I'll have some of those cookies you like."

"All the more reason," Sherlock agreed, and started walking down the hallway again. He waited until he heard the lock on her door click before taking the last steps to arrive at his own door.

As soon as he stopped in front of it, reaching a hand into his pocket for his keys, the mobile in his other pocket started ringing.

Sherlock looped the key ring around one finger then searched for his mobile as it continued to ring insistently. He finally pulled it out and held it up to check the number.

Ah, of course. Who else.

Sherlock was tempted to ignore the call, but he knew if he did it would just continue ringing over and over again until he answered. So he sighed and swiped a finger across the screen to answer.

"What do you want?" He asked coldly, without any greeting.

On the other end the person sighed in a burst of static. "Is that any way to greet your brother?" 

"My brother, yes." Sherlock replied promptly. "Again, what do you want?"

His brother gave a longer, more dramatic sigh over the sound of papers rustling. "I was informed you were taken away by a police officer in the middle of your event. I can't imagine what you could have done to spend nearly an hour in an police station and yet not be charged for anything."

"I wasn't arrested because I didn't do anything wrong," Sherlock bristled angrily. Why would his brother suspect he had done something illegal; he hadn't done anything involving the police in years.

His brother made a disapproving noise, obviously not believing him. "I cannot continue to use my influence to get you out of trouble, Sherlock. You claim you've changed since you came to this country, but I haven’t seen any evidence of that."

Sherlock fought very hard against the urge to throw his phone at the wall. "I have changed, you just refuse to see it. I haven't been involved at all with the police; and on my own I've managed to write and publish three novels in the last several years. Most people would see that as a positive change, let alone a success."

"We are not most people, Sherlock." His brother laughed.

Of course he knew that; his brother reminded him of it at every opportunity. "I've still been successful on my own. And the money I've made has gone solely to providing for my daughter and myself. We're doing perfectly well without any help from you or your influence."

"Writing and publishing fanciful novels," his brother countered, speaking as if such a thing was equal to a lowly, despicable profession. "I wish you would move to a profession that would allow you to fulfill your potential, Sherlock. Being an author isn't offering you or your family any long term benefit."

Sherlock ground his teeth together, nearly fighting back a bitter retort. “I don’t care about long term benefits, Mycroft. I greatly enjoy what I do at the moment, and Ellie and I are both well taken care of.” His hand clenched around the flimsy plastic phone. “I will not be shackled to a desk and forced to play some kind of puppet master while others have all the fun and excitement,” Sherlock hissed into the phone. “I am not you.”

Mycroft laughed sharply at him, and Sherlock just knew it was condescending. “That is a ridiculous and very unrealistic description of my position, Sherlock. I am simply a minor British government official, here to help improve our relations with the United States.”

“Right,” Sherlock drawled snidely. Conversing with his brother somehow always brought out the worst in him. “While silently influencing the U.S. government and its policies from behind the curtain.”

“Sherlock-”

“If that’s the only reason you called, Mycroft, I no longer have any reason to talk to you. Good night, brother,” Sherlock said in a hissed breath before abruptly ending the call. The only thing he missed about the more old fashioned phones were the buttons, so when he needed to hang up he could stab the end call button. It had always given him a temporary relief to his anger when he did that.

Sherlock dropped the phone back into his pocket and wiped his hand on his pant leg, trying to get rid of the irritation from talking to his brother. Then he pulled out his keys again, chose the one to his front door, and inserted it into the lock.

Since Ellie was asleep he turned the key and pushed the door open as quietly and slowly as possible. Ellie’s bedroom may be in the back of the apartment, but when he wasn’t home with her Ellie was hyper aware of any noise. Especially from the front door. 

It opened silently and smoothly on its hinges, and Sherlock stepped inside their apartment. All the lights were turned off except for one in the kitchen, shining on the counter near the refrigerator. Likely Mrs. Hudson’s handiwork; she didn’t approve of useless energy waste.

He had been in this apartment enough times and long enough he could walk through it blindfolded, or in the dark like how it was now. That wasn’t an empty claim either; he had actually tried, and been successful at, finding his way blindfolded around the apartment.

So Sherlock locked the front door and made his way into the living room. He skirted around the sofa and chair, moving towards the hallway leading towards the back. But just as Sherlock was about to walk into the hallway, his phone started ringing again in his coat pocket.

For goodness sake, could he get no relief? Sherlock pulled his phone out and swiped a finger across the screen without looking first. He held it up to his ear and hissed impatiently, “What Mycroft, I said I was finished talking to you.”

Instead, the sound of Molly’s confused, tired voice was a wonderful relief. “What? This isn’t your brother, Sherlock. Don’t you look at your phone first? I thought you did since you only seem to answer my calls when you want. And you never call me when you need to or I ask you to.”

“Molly, hello,” Sherlock greeted her, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t echo or make noise in the quiet apartment. “What can I do for you?”

Molly laughed, the irritation clear. “You’re a bit late on that. What you should have done was call me as soon as you left the precinct. Where have you been? I assume you’ve left already. They didn’t charge you after all, that detective promised he wouldn’t. But I hope you actually behaved yourself. What did he want with you, really?”

“Molly,” Sherlock sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “I only just arrived home after leaving the precinct less than a half hour ago. I haven’t done anything at any time, nor have I been anywhere else.” He spoke over her attempt to start scolding him again. “No, Detective Watson did not charge or arrest me. As he told us, the detective only wanted to talk with me and ask my advice, as a crime novelist, about the case he’s currently working. That is all that happened.”

“Well, I suppose that’s all right,” Molly finally replied after a brief silence, sounding calmer again. “Still, he could have waited until after you finished your event.”

He was not discussing that with her right now. “Molly, it is very late. I am going to say goodnight to my daughter and then go to bed myself. Anything else you want to say to me can wait until tomorrow. Goodnight.”

Without waiting for a response Sherlock ended the call, held the power button down to turn it off, and then dropped the phone back into his pocket.

He unfastened his coat and slid it off in a practiced motion, draping it over the back of the chair. After that Sherlock finally went down the hallway, treading carefully on stockinged feet.

The hallway led to the only rooms in the back of the apartment, a sizable personalized bedroom of Ellie’s and her bathroom. He had bought the apartment with this in mind since he’d wanted Ellie to feel she had her own area just to herself. It was also supposedly quieter back here than in the living room or his own bedroom, away from the busy street.

Ellie’s bedroom door was only partially closed, with some of the light from the lamp on her bedside table illuminating the hallway floor. Sherlock gently pushed the door open only so he had enough room to slip inside.

The floor of her bedroom was carpeted, so it was easier to not make any noise. Ellie was lying sprawled on her stomach in the middle of her bed, with only the top of her head visible past the edge of the quilts and comforter piled on top of her. The lamp was the only light in the room but it was enough for him to see by as he walked carefully over to the nearest side of the bed.

Sherlock sat on the very edge of the mattress, not wanting to disturb Ellie by making it shift to attribute his weight. He peeled back the very top quilt just an inch or so to reveal Ellie’s stuffed bear tucked tightly under her arm and pressed against her body. Just once he had made the mistake of going on holiday with her and not bringing her bear. It was a catastrophe he never wanted to repeat.

Sherlock pulled the quilt further up her body, tucking it in tightly around her. Then he leaned over and pressed a light kiss to the top of her head amongst the curls.

He meant to get up again and go to his own room to change and fall asleep. But, as if she knew he was there, Ellie shifted slightly under her covers and whispered a sleepy, “Dad?”

Sherlock turned to look at her, sliding backward on the bed until he was sitting closer to her. “I thought you were asleep,” he scolded quietly, reaching out a hand to rest it lightly on her back.

“No, heard you come in,” Ellie said as she attempted to roll over on her side to squint sleepily up at him. “‘Time is it?”

“Late,” he answered vaguely, rubbing his hand up and down her back. “Go back to sleep, it’s all right.”

Ellie drowsily reached out to grab the sleeve of his shirt. “Stay here?” She requested in a soft whisper, and how could he say no to that sleepy, adorable face.

“All right,” Sherlock promised with a nod. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and shifted to lie down next to her. “I’ll stay with you,” he promised, clasping his hands together on his stomach then turned his head to look at where she was only inches away.

“Thanks,” she whispered with a sleepy one-sided smile. “Sure you’re okay? You’re really late.”

“Nothing for you to worry about right now, I’ll tell you tomorrow.” Sherlock promised, sliding sideways a little so he was even closer to her.

“”Kay.” Ellie closed her eyes again. A few minutes later, as he counted her breaths the grip on his sleeve loosened and her breathing evened out.

She was asleep again. Sherlock smiled to himself as he shifted again to get more comfortable then closed his eyes. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep himself with her steadying presence beside him. It had been quite a day.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the part where "To Be Continued" would appear in black letters on the screen. So...
> 
> To Be Continued. Soon.
> 
> (Thank you for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think).


End file.
